


the redemption of richie tozier

by tozier



Series: the love of the losers' club [2]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Gen, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Painful Lack of Understanding About Bisexuality, Period-Typical Homophobia, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Suicidal Thoughts, Underage Drinking, Wentworth and Maggie Tozier's A+ Parenting (Not Sarcastic This Time), chosen family, what’s a little violence between friends?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2019-07-20 10:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 80,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16135037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tozier/pseuds/tozier
Summary: Richie Tozier isn’t certain he knows himself; he barely knows what doing so might look like, or what the hell that even means. But he’s sure as fuck willing to find out.Or, Richie grows up all wrong, but it's no one's fault; not even his own.





	1. October, 1982

**Author's Note:**

> this fic has a playlist [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/gqefiixgfkz6en12ub8bpr3zr/playlist/2wahZ0miqM0ynhrWH96Dwt?si=RSRNjGOHSp-mW8HF8NG0xw).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> allo all! this is the companion piece of edification, set in the same universe, and will hopefully fill in a few blanks and give insight to what richie was going through behind the scenes.
> 
> i'm certain (okay, hopeful) it won't be as long as edification was. writing it was only supposed to be an exercise in trying to understand his character better, but then i realized edification started as that as well, and i might as well share what i've come up with with the class.
> 
> hope y'all enjoy!

_You could probably say I'm difficult, I probably talk too much_  
_I overanalyze and overthink things; yes, it's a nasty crutch_  
_I'm usually only waiting for you to stop talking so that I can_  
_Concerning two-way streets, I have to say that I am not a fan_  
  
_But I am the greatest motherfucker that you're ever gonna meet_  
_From the top of my head, down to the tips of the toes on my feet_  
_So go ahead and love me while it's still a crime_  
_And don't forget, you could be laughing 65% more of the time_  
_You could be laughing 63% more of the time_  
_You could be laughing 25% more of the time_

—GMF, John Grant

 

Richie Tozier loses his first tooth the same day as his best friend Eddie Kaspbrak does.

It wasn’t his fault, honestly, and that’s what he tells the aide when she rushes over to them and finds them both gushing blood in the sand by the swing set.

It started with Eddie, because of course it does. As Richie said, _not his fault._

Every since Eddie’s pops kicked the bucket a while back, he’s been acting really weird. Okay, that’s not nice, and Bill has been trying to work with him on being nice, especially when a friend is upset the way Eddie has been a lot lately. So he takes ‘weird’ back, and also ‘kicked the bucket.’ Strike ‘em from the record. Officially rescinded, or whatever they say on Charlie's Angels (which he totally _doesn’t_ watch reruns of on mute with the subtitles on when he can’t sleep, if you ask him in front of his parents).

Instead of ‘weird,’ maybe _odd_ would be a nicer way of putting it. Strange. Occult. Other synonyms for weird he found in the dictionary when Bill (politely, of course, always _polite_ with that guy) reamed into him for saying it about a week ago. Whatever. He was right, and Bill knows it. He’s just sensitive.

Anyway. Back on topic. Teeth. Bleeding. Etcetera.

Eddie’s been acting _odd_ since his _father passed away_ _(how do you like me now, Bill? I’m the politest person in the entire frickin'_ ** _world_** _)_ , so when his top front teeth start to get wobbly, Eddie panics, but tells no one _about_ the panic. He just gets squirrelly.

However, the whole Not Talking About It Plan goes to shit (sorry, mom) at recess when one of them is officially (and literally) hanging on by a thread.

“C’mon, Mr. Spaghetti, just pull it out! You’re right on the edge!” Richie cheers from beside him on the swing set. Richie is swinging, always in motion, but Eddie is not, arm hooked around the chain instead for stability as he tries in vain to shove his tooth back up into his head like an absolute _lunatic._

“No, Rithie! Ith’s unnatural!” Eddie insists through the finger in his mouth. Richie’s impressed that he understands the words due to the shrieking tone of Eddie’s voice.

“It’s _fine,_ Edmund. Lucy’s lost almost all’a hers already, and she says it’s totally normal! Nothin’ to be afraid of!”

“‘M not _afraid,”_ Eddie huffs, removing his finger to wag it at Richie menacingly like some sort of old-timey authority figure from the 50s. He looks ridiculous, but really, he kind of always looks ridiculous. “I just don’t think our teeth should _fall out of our heads._ I don’t think I’m alone in that.”

“I think you are, but let’s get a second opinion. _Billiam!”_ Richie yells to Bill who’s been sitting up on top of slide for about 10 minutes of their 30 minutes outside. Bill turns to look, but Richie can’t make out his expression from so far away. It _isn’t_ that he needs glasses, _mom,_ it’s just bright out. He swears. He waves his arm wildly even though he already has Bill’s attention, and then flaps it towards himself. “Come over here!”

“Coming!” Bill calls back, voice high and comforting as it usually is, albeit a little reedy from nerves (moreso than usual, too; the dude is wound tighter than a banjo string, honestly). It seems to settle Eddie as well that Bill will be coming soon, so long as he can get down from the top of the slide.

“While we wait for Big Bill to muster up all his courage to slide down the _baby slide,_ do you want me to prove my theory?” Richie proposes, sticking his tongue up against the back of his own wiggly tooth to show Eddie. It’s far less ready to come out than Eddie’s, but Richie has never been a very patient boy; his parents tell him this every chance they get.

“No.”

“I think you do,” Richie says, reaching up into his mouth to grab his tooth.

“Richie, _stop!_ Your fingers have been all over that filthy chain, yer gonna get tetanus!”

“Whath’s tetanuth?” Richie asks, moving his tooth back and forth, trying in vain to dislodge it. Eddie sighs harshly, swatting Richie’s hand away from his face before reaching into his fanny pack to pull out a travel size mouthwash. “You just have that on you? Pretty sure that’s more unnatural than losing a tooth, Eds.”

“Shut up,” Eddie glares, shoving the bottle at him, “and don’t call me that.”

Richie ignores him completely, but still takes a swig and swishes it around, feeling it fizz up underneath his loose tooth, before spitting it out onto the sand.

“Yuck, Richie! Grass!”

“Too far,” Richie shrugs, grinning. Eddie smiles back reluctantly, sticking his tongue out at him for good measure, but his expression morphs into one of horror soon enough. “Eds? Eddie, what’s wrong?”

Eddie points wildly at his mouth, eyes crossing to try to get a good look. And that’s when Richie sees it: his loose tooth, now _really_ loose—like, fully dislodged, actually—sitting primly on his tongue. Richie wants to say he told him so, but he knows that wouldn’t be _polite._ Point for Bill.

“Oh, shit,” Richie mumbles, knowing exactly what’s coming. Like clockwork, Eddie starts wailing, and Richie watches helplessly as his tooth falls off his tongue, bounces off his thighs, and drops into the sand below them. “Aw, shit!”

“Language,” Eddie blubbers helplessly as Richie pitches himself off the swing and into the dirt, searching wildly for Eddie’s missing tooth. “My ma’s gonna kill me!”

“No she won’t! Not if I — ugh. _Bill!”_

“C-Co-Co-Coming!”

“ _You said that ten minutes ago, dude! Code Red!”_

Okay, so Richie doesn’t exactly know what happens during a ‘Code Red,’ but again, Charlie’s Angels. Bill however seems to get the message well enough, because he pitches himself down the slide with a short scream and then runs over to them full-tilt.

“What ha-ha-hap—”

“Lostht my toof.” Eddie is practically moaning as he holds his hand up to his face like he’s gonna somehow catch the tooth that has very clearly already fallen on the ground. Richie’s _working on it,_ okay?

“Jeez, Spaghetti, it ain’t the end of the world!” Richie sighs, motioning for Bill to look, too, because Bill’s a better finder than he is anyway. “Lighten up.”

“You don’t _get it_ Rithie,” Eddie sighs with an impressing flair of drama. Richie gives up looking and sits back on the swing beside Eddie. “My ma told me I have to lose my teef at _home.”_

Richie wrinkles his nose in confusion, “What? That’s weird. I don’t think she can tell your teeth what to do.”

“But she can tell _me_ what to do,” Eddie says, breath starting to come in quickly like it does when he needs his inhaler. “And if I don’t come back with a tooth, she’s gonna _really_ kill me! She’ll call me irresponsible and talk about _dental records,_ and-and—” Eddie cuts himself off with another intense wail. What the hell are the teachers doing, diddling themselves? For christ’s sake. Richie has to do everything himself.

“Uh! Uh!” Okay so, Richie is floundering. He doesn’t do well under pressure, alright? Sue him. So when he reaches into his mouth and yanks out his loose tooth, it really shouldn’t be held against him. “Youch! Motherfucker!”

 _“Richie!”_ Eddie admonishes with a scream. “What’d you do that for, idiot?!”

“To give to you!” Richie cries, staring at the tooth in his hand. It looks so innocent for how _bad_ his mouth hurts. It tastes like he bit into a metal rod, and then the metal rod spit in his mouth. Jesus. “To show your mom!”

“What the fuck, Richie?! I’m not going to give my mom another kid’s tooth! That’s loony-tunes!”

“Is _not!”_ Richie shouts, a little annoyed that Eddie isn’t just taking his blood-covered tooth so he can focus back up on the _incredible fucking pain he's currently in_. “This is a _great_ plan. Ask Bill!”

“B-Ba-Bad plan,” Bill mutters, still sifting through sand. _Asshole._

“See?!”

“Whatever!” Richie huffs, but the rush of air that whistles through the gap in his teeth _really, really_  hurts, like,  _unbearably_ so, and sends him falling to the sand and rolling around in pain. Eddie immediately kneels down to rub his hand up and down on Richie’s arm, so quickly and anxiously that it wouldn't be any sort of comfort if Eddie weren't the one doing it.

“Bill, is it supposed to hurt that bad?” Eddie frets, gripping Richie’s wrist loosely. It doesn’t keep Richie from flailing, so it must be for no other reason than it seems to ground Eddie that he isn’t fully dead from, like, blood loss or something, seriously, _when is he going to stop bleeding, this_ **_is_ ** _loony-tunes._ “It didn’t hurt like that when _mine_ fell out!”

“Because it was su-p-p-posed to, Eds,” Bill sighs, giving up on his sand-search to come inspect Richie for himself. “Buddy, we’re gonna need to take you to the nurse.”

“Noooo!” Richie moans, “Eds gotta take my too-hoo-hooth.”

“We gotta go to the nurse’s office, Rich,” Eddie says, sighing as he takes Richie’s hand. He tries to pull him up, but Richie won’t budge from his temper-tantrum in the sand, so Eddie gives up and just holds it. “They’ll give ya one of those cool l’il tooth carriers, right? Remember?”

“Yeah,” Richie sniffs, wiping the snot on his face with the back of his opposite wrist. Eddie grimaces, but says nothing, which is pretty much the coolest thing he’s ever done, so Richie throws him a bone and sits up. “Lucy gets ‘em all the time. She’s losin’ teeth left and right!”

“And now you can have one, too,” Eddie smiles, tugging once more.

“What in heaven’s name is going on here?” The aide _finally_ demands as she hustles over.

"It wasn't my fault!" Richie cries, because the people  _need to be aware._

“We-We-We got it, Miss Castille,” Bill says, ignoring Richie to half-shield him with his thin body. Pretty heroic for the guy who was too scared to go down the slide a few minutes ago. “We’re gonna bring Richie to the nurse, okay?”

“You need to have a second grader with you,” she says, scandalized that they would even _imply_ walking the halls by themselves. Ghastly, really, to even ponder the mere thought. How fucking stupid. Richie wants to tell her this, but Eddie beats him to it, albeit much more  _politely_ than Richie himself would've. Richie's gotta give it to the dude; he works fast.

“I think we’ll be fine,” Eddie says, gritting his teeth and half-growling. Okay, nevermind, _that’s_ the coolest thing Eddie’s ever done. Richie’s honestly a little dazed by how cool it was. Eddie protecting his honor like Richie’s a damsel from the movies is pretty frickin’ sick if you ask him.

“Yeah, Miss Castille, if we a-a-all go, it won’t be a problem, right?” Bill gives her the puppy dog eyes, which are always pretty brutal when Richie’s on the receiving end of them and he’s not even an adult. It isn’t surprising that her expression softens and she waves her hand dismissively.

“Fine. Let me write you all out a hall pass.” She does so, hands it to Bill, and then walks off.

“C’mon,” Eddie says, gripping Richie’s hand a little tighter to hoist him up. Richie had forgotten he was even holding it. Their hands are super sweaty, but it’s still kinda nice anyway. Richie gives him a toothless grin and nods.

“‘Kay.”

So that’s how Bill, Eddie and Richie all end up in the nurse’s office with two gaps and only one tooth. She checks out Richie’s mouth to make sure there isn’t any damage (spick and span, just like Richie had tried to tell Eddie on the walk there), writes Eddie a little certificate of Official Tooth Loss because he begged for one (which Richie thinks in _incredibly_ silly, but whatever), and gives Richie the tooth carrier to wear around his neck for the rest of the day. It feels a little like a badge of honor.

But Eddie still looks a little sad, or worried, or both, and Richie grumbles under his breath about how good a friend he is. How obnoxious that Richie's grown so fond of this anxious little asshole. Annoying is what it is. He'd much rather be strapped with someone like Bill to like so much, or maybe Madeline Shaw. She's a real sweetie, always giving out the Smarties she gets in her lunchbox one by one, going around the table round robin and giving everybody one each. Eddie always gives Richie his, says he doesn't want to run the risk of getting cavities like Richie already has. Eddie calls his mouth a lost cause if he's already had a cavity so young, and he deserves to enjoy the sweets while he 'still has teeth to chew them with.' As Richie already stated, _anxious little asshole._ But he's  _Richie's_ anxious little asshole, and so on the walk back to the classroom, he takes the tooth carrier from around his neck, steps in front of Eddie to keep him from walking further, and hooks it around Eddie’s neck instead.

“What are you doing?” Eddie frowns, putting his hands up to try and stop him, like he could even try now that Richie’s mind is made up.

“You gotta have somethin' to show Mrs. K,” Richie shrugs. “Crime scene evidence and all that.”

“But I’ve got the—” He waves the certificate he’s still clutching in one hand. All Richie does is shrug.

“You want it or not?” Eddie looks down, considering. He curls his free hand around the tooth carrier and smiles. “C’mon, let’s go back.” Richie starts to walk off towards Bill who had left them alone and kept walking. Richie doesn’t look back, knowing Eddie will follow anyway. He does, sneakers squeaking against the floor as he rushes to catch up.

“This is really nice,” Eddie says quietly after walking beside Richie silently for a little while (or, as silent as Eddie Kaspbrak can ever be, always wheezing or muttering incomprehensibly to himself). He says it almost like he can't believe it, that Richie could ever be nice, let alone to him. A little wounding, but probably justified considering Richie had just stopped internally monologued about Eddie's nuisance status like 45 seconds ago. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.” Richie feels a little embarrassed for some reason, like he gave Eddie more than just his tooth. The notion paired with the wave of shame that comes with it makes him feel incredibly uncomfortable, so he immediately turns to Eddie and starts demanding he let him see the gap that he’s been successfully hiding.

“No,” Eddie snaps, covering his mouth with his hand. “I don't look like normal.”

“Lemme see ‘em, Eds! Open up!” Richie shrieks with delight, pawing at Eddie's wrists and forgetting all about his momentary and confusing wave of shame.

Eddie clamps his mouth shut dramatically and shakes his head. “No, I look totally silly.”

“No way! C’mon, lemme see you work that thang!”

“Ugh, Richie,” Eddie smiles, reluctantly dropping his hand and bearing his teeth before covering himself up once again.

“Whoo-ee! Lookie ‘ere, folks!” Richie cheers, tossing his arm around Eddie’s shoulders, reeling him in close to dig his knuckles into Eddie's head before letting it hang loose around his shoulders; it probably looks far more casual than it feels. “We got a top toother in our midsts! Yessiree!”

“Shut up, oh my God! People are in class, ya buffoon!” Eddie giggles. He wanders closer to Richie’s side, fitting into it snugly, which makes Richie have to bite back the genuine tilt of his mouth so he can maintain a more smarmy grin. “And you lost the same tooth!”

“Sure did,” Richie smiles, unable to hold back the genuine as he looks down at Eddie. “We’re blood brothers now.”

“Blood brothers,” Eddie repeats, nodding and hiding his answering grin in his baby pink polo (buttoned all the way up to the throat, of course. He looks dumb. He always does. Richie can't believe he's endeared by someone as dumb as Eddie Kaspbrak). “I like that.”

Richie curls his hand around Eddie’s arm, bringing him close to squeeze him tightly before dropping his arm as they round the corner and approach Bill who is looking at them with a confused sort of quirk to his eyebrows. The unidentifiable shame comes back, washes over him furiously and floods his body with an ugly sort of warmth, but he still mutters quietly to Eddie, enough so that he’ll be the only one to hear him, “Me, too.”


	2. April, 1985

_When my mirror speaks, it never minces words_  
_Because these eyes don't shine half as bright_  
_As they used to do and they haven't for quite a while_

 _Because I'm a man who hides from all that binds_  
_In a mess of fading lines_  
_And there's a tangled thread inside my head_  
_With nothing on either end_

—My Mirror Speaks, Death Cab for Cutie

 

Richie knows he isn’t the prettiest boy on the block—not by a long shot. He’s _seen_ pretty boys, and he knows he isn’t one of them.

For starters, he hasn't ever been able to control his long limbs that jut out awkwardly in odd directions, his body refusing to grow into itself, but that's truly just the tip of the iceberg: he has these huge glasses that make him look like a bug according Eddie; he’s a touch cross-eyed, but not enough for the eye doctor he (begrudgingly) goes to to allow corrective surgery—no, just enough that he looks like even more of a fucking dumbass than he does already; when he smiles, he gets this deep dimple in one cheek, but not the other; he has freckles and moles all over, and none of them are symmetrical. He remembers his art teacher telling his class that things that are pleasing to look at are all symmetrical. It isn’t just his uneven moles and patches of acne that make him lose aesthetic balance.

He scrutinizes his own face in the mirror so often, he barely even notices the changes that are occurring rapidly and naturally with the burgeoning devil of puberty. He gets real close to the bathroom mirror and pokes and prods and picks at his own lopsided face, cataloguing every flaw with meticulous attention that he doesn’t have the capacity to give anything else. His eyes are too big from the magnification of his glasses; if he turns his head the right way, it looks as if they’re popping straight out of his head. His cheeks are thick and his stomach is pudgy and his belly button sticks out, when he’s seen swimming at the quarry that his other friends’ don’t. _An outie,_ Bill calls it, but that sounds silly. _They’re just bodies,_ Bill also says, but that sounds silly, too.

Just bodies, pfft. Their bodies are all they have, and Richie doesn’t have a very good one.

His mother tells him that he’s beautiful almost every night before bed, but he isn’t so sure about that. One time, after a particularly long and insecure session in front of the mirror, he’d snapped at his mom and dad for cursing him to be so ugly. _Why do you guys get to be pretty and I’m don’t? It’s not_ **_fair!_ ** His mom had cried and his dad looked like Richie kicked him in the nuts, so Richie learned after that to keep these feelings about his appearance to himself from then on. He doesn’t like to hurt people, but he does so a lot, even though it’s always without meaning to. He hates it.

He doesn’t know why he doesn’t look more like his parents or his older sister Lucy. _They’re_ beautiful. His mom has a collection of soft brown freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose like he does, but no moles, and his dad is tall and broad in ways Richie doesn’t think he could ever achieve even if he _didn’t_ skip gym with Eddie every day. Lucy has these perfect dark ringlets that frame her face like she’s Shirley fucking Temple or some shit, even though she’s already 14 years old. She’s angelic; childlike, but not innocent. She never gets into trouble, not like Richie does, but she likes to roughhouse with him sometimes if she’s in the right mood. Usually, she just colors a lot. She’s really good at it. Richie thinks she’ll be a world-famous artist someday. He hopes so; she deserves that. Richie loves her so much. He loves his whole family.

Richie wants to say that he loves himself, too. He wants to say that he makes himself proud and he is okay being himself, but he can’t. He can’t say those things because they aren’t true. Richie tells lies all the time, but never about big things. He’ll say he brushed his teeth or did his homework when he really didn’t. He’ll say he likes a song Stanley shows him when he really doesn’t. These are okay lies, he thinks. _White lies,_ he read somewhere. Black lies, or big lies, though, he stays away from.

That is, until Madeline Shaw kisses him on the mouth.

Richie had honestly never really much thought about kissing until then. He kisses Eddie sometimes, but that’s because he’s _Eddie._ He’s really kissable. It isn’t a big deal. Well, okay, maybe he hasn’t kissed Eddie in a while. In fact, now that he thinks about it, Eddie has been pushing Richie away every time he tries to touch him as of late. Richie used to hug him all the time—sometimes, Eddie would even hug him first—but it’s been a couple of years since he did that, not since they were in the first or second grade. It makes Richie a little sad when he thinks about it, because he loves touching Eddie, so he decides to stop thinking about it at all. He has enough things to worry about.

Like how he’s going to explain to Madeline that he shoved her off of him and yelled _yuck!_ when she kissed him just now.

She looks a little hurt, and maybe that’s justified, because Richie didn’t _need_ to be so over-the-top about his reaction, but he was a little shocked! Sue him! He and Madeline have been hanging out a little, sure, because Eddie’s mom has gotten really weird whenever Richie comes over, and Bill’s parents are really busy with Baby George who just turned one year old. Richie went to his birthday party (even though he thinks it’s a little silly to throw a party for a _baby._ It’s not like Baby George is gonna remember! He’s a baby!) but that was the last time he saw Eddie or Bill outside of school. Stanley is who he hangs out with most when he isn’t with Madeline.

Richie likes Stanley a whole lot. He’s a little mean and a _lot_ funny (even though Richie doesn’t get a lot of his jokes), but he’s also quiet and thoughtful. He’s a boy scout, so he knows a lot about the outdoors, which doesn’t interest Richie in the least, but he still likes listening to Stanley talk about birds (even if he _does_ tease him about it, which Richie thinks is entirely justified because Stan gets this funny little pinched expression that makes him wish Stan liked hugs as much as his other friends do). It’s nice to let people talk about the stuff they like. He would want his friends to listen to him if he liked something that much. His interests are always intense, but fleeting. He never stays interested in one movie or show or animal or anything for long enough to be able to talk about it the way Stan can.

And okay, it isn’t that girls have cooties or something dumb like that— _especially_ Maddy. She’s actually really cool; she tells these really intense ghost stories, one of which gave Richie nightmares for an entire _week._ She’s really smart about things that Richie totally isn’t, like Social Studies and English. She gets As on all her papers and Richie is a little jealous; he usually only ever gets B+’s in those subjects at best. Being Maddy’s friend makes him want to be smarter, try harder, be funnier and cooler, because when she’s impressed by him, it feels really good. She’s rarely ever impressed by anything or anyone. It makes him feel like maybe he can impress other people, too.

He supposes he’s doing pretty well at that considering Maddy decided now would be a great time to plant one on him.

It’s been a _while_ since Richie has said anything other than _yuck gross,_ which was not exactly his finest hour or the nicest thing he could’ve said to the girl who gave him his first kiss (even if it _was_ a little out of the blue). But really, he’s always considered Eddie to be his first kiss. Not that he’d tell Maddy that, both because it seems a little rude and because Maddy doesn’t like Eddie very much.

She calls him _the cripple_ which makes Richie really mad. Just because Eddie has asthma and has to take pills at lunchtime doesn’t mean he’s _sick_ or something! If Eddie were really sick, Richie would know because they’re best friends, and it wouldn’t be nice for someone who isn’t even _friends_ with Eddie to call him a bad word. Richie has said some nasty stuff to all his friends, but they all know he’s joking. He loves his friends and he doesn’t ever want to hurt them, so he stops when they tell him he’s gone too far. Especially Eddie; he’s really good at telling it like it is, and Richie thinks that’s really brave. His best friend is super fucking cool.

Well, maybe not so much _best friend_ lately, but Richie stills consider him that, and when someone asks Richie who his best friend is, he _always_ says Bill or Eddie or Stanley; whoever he saw more recently. Lately, it’s been Stanley, but sometimes, Bill will bike home with him (he just got this really cool bike that he calls Silver. It’s a twelve-speed, which is basically a Ferrari in the bicycle world), or Eddie will climb the big tree behind the gymnasium with him when they skip gym class. But usually, Bill’s mom picks him up in her new minivan and Eddie just sits out on the sidelines of whatever activity their apathetic teacher decides to torture them with that day. Sometimes not though, and Richie loves those times.

Anyway. Madeline. Who is now crying and apologizing profusely and will probably get snot all over Richie’s comforter which Eddie will sniff out like a bloodhound and he’ll refuse to ever go near it again. Richie might have to throw his whole bed away if that happens. Gotta think fast.

“It’s cool!” He squeaks, adjusting his glasses nervously to get Maddy to stop rambling apologies at a speed that would impress him if he weren’t so busy trying in vain to calm her down. “I just wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

“Why not? We’ve been hanging out a ton,” Maddy frowns, sniffing and wiping her ruddy cheeks with the back of her hand. She’s cute, even if it’s in a totally not-for-Richie way, and he feels bad that he pushed her away without being able to explain himself. If he’s honest, _he_ really doesn’t know why he pushed her away. Gut reaction, he supposes. “I thought we were boyfriend-girlfriend.”

Richie makes a face and shakes his head. “No. We’re friend-friend.”

“Oh.” Her voice is small and sad, and Richie just wants to _stop feeling bad._ He wants to stop fucking up all the time. He’s kind of an asshole. He even let Maddy hold his hand once when they were crossing the street. He thought it was just because she’s used to doing that with her parents. Guess not. “Sorry. I guess I just thought… I just think you’re really cute, and…”

“You _do?”_ Richie demands incredulously, pulling another face that will probably make Maddy reconsider. Nobody has ever really called him cute before aside from his parents and Eddie. Well, technically, Eddie didn’t call him _cute._ What he said was _you look like an alien, but you’re still pretty,_ which in hindsight was probably an insult of some kind, but it still made his stomach all fluttery for the rest of the day. He doesn’t have that same squirmy feeling when Madeline says it. He just feels sort of uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Maddy shrugs, looking away. She starts getting up and putting her books back in her backpack. “I’m just gonna go I think.”

“Okay,” Richie says, getting up as well. “Do you have a ride home?”

“My house is nearby, and my mommy lets me walk around when it it’s not dark out, so…”

“Okay,” Richie repeats, feeling more dumb than he has in a really long time. “That’s really cool of her. I-I’ll walk you out.”

“No. It’s fine,” Maddy says in that voice people use when they want that to be the end of the conversation, so he sits back down dutifully. But then she keeps talking. “Just… Do you even think I’m cute at all, Richard?”

Richie is puzzled. He _supposes_ Maddy is cute. She’s just… Maddy. She’s his pal. She’s a real swell guy (or, girl) he supposes, but not really for him. He’s never really had a crush anyone before—or at least not a real one the way Lucy talks about them—but he thinks he probably should, for all intents and purposes, have one on Maddy. She listens to him ramble on about stuff she doesn’t care about the same way Bill and Stan do, and she lets him have as many cheese sticks as he wants when he comes over. Or, came over. He doesn’t think he’s going to be invited round so much after this.

But she just looks so fucking _sad._ It’s a little pathetic, but the way that wet dogs are pathetic. You just want to hug them and dry them off and feed them cheese. But Richie doesn’t want to _kiss_ a dog, and he doesn’t want to kiss Madeline either. Not that Maddy is a dog. It’s just that he liked kissing Eddie a hell of a lot more than he liked kissing Maddy.

He doesn’t say that, though. Instead, he shrugs and gives her a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure,” he says, and it almost sounds like the truth if you don’t listen close enough. Maybe big lies are important to tell when they protect both people involved.

But Madeline’s no detective, so she just smiles, one that reaches her eyes, and bobs her head. “Thanks.” She hooks her backpack over her shoulders and points to Richie’s open door. “Well, I’m gonna go now.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in school, ol' chum?” Richie asks, using an old-timey Voice to hide his hopefulness. She just shrugs, mumbles something under her breath that Richie can’t really make out but sounds a lot like _what a weirdo,_ gives him a small wave, and walks out.

Okay, did Richie miss a memo or something? Since when are boys and girls supposed to be kissing all of a sudden? They’re, like, nine years old. It feels a little bit soon to be jumping the gun like this.

So he asks his family at dinner what age he’s supposed to start kissing people. Maggie looks a little horrified and says, “Preferably not until at least high school,” Wentworth punches him lightly on the shoulder and cheers, “Go get ‘em, tiger!” while Lucy pretends to wretch.

“You’re nine years old, man,” Lucy grimaces, “who the hell do you want to be kissing?”

“Language, Luce.”

“No one!” Richie crows, pointing at her excitedly. “That’s what I said!”

“Oh, are we talking about Madeline?” Maggie asks, leaning her chin into her hand conspiratorially. “She’s a sweetheart.”

“I guess…” Richie mumbles, moving his peas around with his fork so he can spell _SOS._

“Did she kiss you, son?” Went asks, a little less worked up than earlier since Richie expressed he wasn’t too keen on it.

“Yeah, kinda. I pushed her off, though.”

“Wait, _what?”_ Lucy spits, a little piece of corn flying through the genetically-predisposed space between her two front teeth. Maggie sighs fondly when she doesn’t even notice and wipes it up with a napkin. “A girl kissed you and you pushed her away? _Why?”_

“I didn’t wanna be kissing her, why else?” Richie jeers.

“Okay, guys, come on, no fighting until the match on WWE starts at 8,” Wentworth grins, “you need all the guidance you can get.”

“Went,” Maggie warns, but she doesn’t sound too put out.

“Well, why not?” Lucy asks, both of them ignoring their parents. She’s lost the attitude but still sounds intrigued.

“‘Cause I didn’t like it as much as the other ones,” Richie shrugs.

“The… what?” Maggie asks, dumbfounded and looking a bit startled. “You’ve been kissing other girls?” Richie shakes his head and shrugs at the same time, moving the peas around now to spell _UGH._

“Man, son, you’re seeing more action than I did my entire time in high school,” Wentworth chuckles. Maggie punches him in the arm, hard enough for Wentworth to rear back and say, “What! He is!” but not hard enough to keep them from grinning at each other like idiots. Suddenly, Richie is reminded of when Eddie hits him. They make those same stupid googly-eye faces at each other. Richie supposes that’s why his mom and dad like kissing as much as Richie likes kissing Eddie.

Except Eddie isn’t his husband. He doesn’t think that’s allowed, or even legal, according to the filth Henry Bowers spews. Would the cops take him away in handcuffs if they found out that Richie’s been thinking about kissing Eddie? Ugh, whatever. What the police don’t know won’t hurt them.

“I mean, it's not a big deal. It’s just good ol’ Eds.”

 _“Eddie?”_ Lucy demands, completely abandoning interest in her mashed potatoes now, attention fully on Richie in a way it almost never is, which makes Richie feel really good and really nervous at once. “Eddie _Kaspbrak?”_

“Mmm- _hm.”_ Silence.

“Oh, _reeeally?”_ Maggie hums after a little time spent staring wide-eyed at Richie’s dad, stifling a grin and leaning her chin into her palm once again. She’s intrigued in that ways parents get when their child has said something they don’t realize is funny.

Richie doesn’t like to be patronized, so he says, “What? It’s not like we’re having _orgasms_ or something.”

Both his parents gasp, scandalized, and Lucy bursts out laughing to the point where she begins banging her fists on the table and shaking their glassware. “Richard Patrick Tozier, where on earth did you learn that word?”

Lucy abruptly cuts off her laughter and shoots him a fierce glare that says _if you tell them it was me, you’re dead meat._ Richie doesn’t want to be dead meat, so instead of ratting her out, he just shrugs and says, “Kids at school.”

Lucy relaxes and continues chuckling while his mother sighs. “Well, it’s not appropriate for a dinner conversation, that much is for certain.”

“Sorry,” he grins, not really very sorry at all.

They don’t ask about him kissing Eddie again, and Richie goes to sleep that night forgetting entirely about the incident with Madeline. Instead, he’s hoping Eddie will skip gym with him tomorrow. Maybe he’ll entice Eddie with a quarter for a rocket pop—he always likes those.

When he sees Maddy at school the next day, she pretends she doesn’t see him wave at her and hurries past him. Richie doesn’t think much of it. Eddie takes his quarter for the rocket pop and they spend the whole 45 minutes during gym class lounging in the grass in the middle of their sorry excuse for a soccer field and eating their popsicles. Eddie tells him he likes the color the blue makes on his mouth, calls it _pretty,_ and Richie explodes like a firework, telling Eddie he can lick it off if he wants. He thinks he ruins it because Eddie groans and throws a clump of grass at him, but he doesn’t take it back, so Richie thinks maybe he _is_ pretty. Maddy called him cute, but Richie thinks it’d be really nice for somebody he thinks is very pretty himself to think Richie’s pretty, too. Richie thinks the red stain the popsicle makes on Eddie’s mouth is incredibly pretty. For some reason, he doesn’t say so. The silence kind of feels like a lie. He didn’t know you could lie without even saying a word.

Bill rides his bike beside Richie after school and they talk about how he wishes he could come over to Richie’s house more; he loves Baby George, but he’s loud as hell. Stanley comes over for dinner later and Richie’s parents make sure the meal is kosher because Richie told them to. Stanley seems so overwhelmingly grateful for this that he gets a little choked up. Richie teases him about it, because he loves teasing his friends, but Stanley just rolls his eyes and tells him to shut up, ducking his head to hide his smile into his shoulder. He wonders if anyone has ever taken Stanley’s religion into consideration, and it makes him a little sad to think that, based on his reaction, they probably haven’t. The two of them play a dumb racing game on Richie’s N64 in the living room after they eat (of which Richie wins, _of course),_ and Stanley gives him a high-five when his mom picks him up later to bring him home. Stanley almost never touches anyone of his own accord, so the fact that he'd willingly slap hands with Richie despite all the times he's whined about how filthy Richie always seems to be, is pretty fucking cool.

It’s a good day. He doesn’t think about Madeline Shaw very much after that—he's got enough things to think about.


	3. February, 1990

_You give me all of you_  
_I recognize my heart as black and blue_  
_You accept all I do_  
_But I don't know if that is wise_

 _You offer all of you_  
_I recognize your hand as a budding bruise_  
_You reject solitude_  
_But I don't know if I am worth it_

—Worth It, Moses Sumney

 

Richie Tozier loves his family. He knows it’s not really all that _cool_ to love your parents or your sister when you’re in middle school, but Richie does, even if he doesn’t gush about them to anyone like he sometimes wants to.

He has a sister named Lucy. She’s already in high school, and while they don’t interact a lot when they see each other on school grounds, she’s always sweet to him when they’re at home. She likes Eddie the most out of all his friends, which is convenient, because Richie talks about Eddie _a lot._ She teases him about it sometimes, bringing up what he told his family at dinner when Madeline Shaw kissed him with _Richie and Eddie sittin’ in a tree! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!_ It’s always good-natured, though. She doesn’t seem too put out about the idea of the two of them kissing, even when she rags on him. She makes this crazy ramen noodle soup with hot sauce and lots of strange spices, and even though the noodles are freeze-dried and only cost a dime, it still always tastes _amazing._ She won’t tell him the recipe, but Richie doesn’t really want her to even though he says he does, because that would take away some of the time he gets to spend with her.

His mom works a lot, but she’s always, _always_ home before Richie goes to bed so she can kiss his forehead and wish him goodnight. She’s some high-power, super cool lawyer chick who brings home the bacon, and she’s kind of Richie’s hero. Well, aside from his dad. And maybe Bill Denbrough. (Okay, definitely Bill Denbrough, but who could blame him for that one? The man revolutionized the ability to be a soft but firm leader, and Richie would absolutely follow him directly into the ocean with no questions asked, with or without a swift right-hook to his cheek.)

Wentworth Tozier may have a stupid first name if you ask Richie, but he definitely doesn’t have a stupid sense of humor. Richie’s been cracking jokes since before he could even call anyone a friend, but back then, his father was the only one who’d actually laugh. The dude has a _killer_ sense of humor for being a measly construction worker, and that taught Richie to not read a book by its cover. If he remembers correctly, it was Eddie Kaspbrak who was the first person to laugh at one of his jokes that didn’t live in his house. Eddie taught him about the book-cover-thing, too.

And that’s another thing about Richie’s parents: they _adore_ Eddie. They love all his friends, really—they even let Beverly sleep over whenever she wants _and_ let him leave the door shut! It’s not like they’re doing anything but playing Super Mario Kart and smoking secret cigarettes out the open window, but still! Pretty cool for the parents of a very openly hormonal teenager. But they always ask how Eddie is right after they inquire about his day at school, and that, to Richie, is pretty fucking sick.

Eddie can very rarely come over because of his terrible mother, but Richie’s parents still remember how close he and Eddie still are despite that. Richie supposes they have to with the fact that he goes over there, like, fifteen times a week. They don’t ask a lot of questions, only ever the right ones so as not to be pushy or overbearing. Things like _when will you be home? We’ll leave the light on just in case,_ and, _what do you want to do for your birthday? Bowling again? Because my co-worker took his son to this paintball place with mini golf and a Go-Kart track. It’s all the way down in Portland, but we can take Lucy and a couple of your friends if you’d like._

Richie loves them fiercely because they never ask him why he goes over to Eddie’s house so much, or why he never really talks about crushes on girls, or why he used to kiss Eddie a lot when they were young, or why he adamantly refuses to entertain the idea that he and Beverly are a romantic item, but got weird and cagey when they gushed about how handsome Stanley looked in his bar mitzvah suit. They always take these things in stride, never pry or poke too hard at the open wounds Richie desperately tries to conceal.

At least, they used to. A lot of that changed after the summer of 1989.

Richie became noticeably withdrawn when he went into the eighth grade, and it very clearly worries the Toziers that the light has faded from his eyes. Even Lucy has been nicer to him than usual, and she's usually pretty damn nice to him to begin with. She painted him a portrait of him and all six of his friends for Christmas this year with the new watercolors she got for her birthday in November. Richie loved it so much, he asked his mom if they could frame it, and it’s now hung up beside his bed. Maggie doesn’t work as much as she used to, claiming that she just wants to spend more time at home with Richie and Lucy. _You guys are growing up fast, you know,_ she said when she told him, voice high like a bell and pillow-soft as it almost always is around her family. _I don’t want to miss a thing._ This causes Wentworth to break out into a poor rendition of Meatloaf that has Richie and Lucy in stitches. They both join in eventually, and together, they sail across the living room crooning to a hysterical Maggie.

Sometimes, like that afternoon, and like Christmas, things are good.

And sometimes they’re not. Okay, usually they're not.

The worst of these times so far in his life comes when Richie’s 14th birthday is starting to near. It’s late-February and he’s more withdrawn than ever; the joy he felt on Christmas is fading fast and is being replaced with a sadness and forced apathy that feels bone-deep. Beverly hasn’t really been talking to any of them much lately, and it’s understandable; she’s surely traumatized by a lot more than just memories of the clown if the bits and pieces Bill tells them about her late father are true. It still stings though, even though he knows it shouldn’t. Beverly’s been either hanging out with a girl named Samantha who’s in their Pre-Algebra class, or she’s not hanging out with anyone at all. Richie is equal parts worried and lonely.

She never _asked_ for space, and readily talks to any of the boys from their little Clown Killing Squad if they approach her, but she doesn’t ever seek them out. At least, not in the way she did over the summer. It kind of hurts both because Beverly is one of the only people he can talk about the trauma of the summer of ‘89 with and because Richie was starting to think for the first time that maybe he wasn’t broken; he’d had a small but very real crush on Beverly. Not so much attraction as much as a swelling type of pride that couldn’t be ignored, wasn’t natural for only-friends-type-people. And really, who wouldn’t have a crush on Beverly? She’s the most badass person, girl or otherwise, that Richie has ever known. She makes the lion of Eddie Kaspbrak look like a house cat, and Eddie is fierce as _fuck._

It’s mostly just the original four that started their group again because Mike is homeschooled, seemingly just fine to spend all his time at home with his parents, and Ben is just as withdrawn as Beverly has been lately. And as much as Richie loves the three boys he grew up with, it’ll never be the same as it was before that half-terrible, half-wonderful, all-life-changing summer. Back when their biggest problems were Henry Bowers shitting in his backpack and being called slurs that made his stomach churn with shame. There’s so much more to think about now, so many more important things to worry about. Will the clown really return? Why has everyone seemingly forgotten the missing kids even existed at all? How will they all move on from this without being plagued by terror for the rest of their lives?

And yet, he still finds himself worrying about the same old things he used to.

Which is why when his mother and father find him crying into what looks like a Sears catalog with Morrissey crooning loudly from his boombox two weeks before his 14th birthday, it’s seemingly the last straw for them. Gone were the days of refraining from prying or asking only the questions Richie wanted to answer.

Richie supposes that his parents can’t always be fun, although he wishes that things could at least stay the same at home where he never saw the clown and his parents remained blissfully unaware of the trauma and torture he faced last summer.

Wentworth goes over to the boombox and turns it down to a mere whisper while Maggie hurries into the room but still giving him a decent amount of space. Richie slaps the magazine shut with far too much force to not look suspicious and shoves it between the mattress and the wall, wiping his tears away violently and scooting backwards so his back is flush against his window, like he’s somehow afraid his mother _knows_ already and will hurt him because of it.

He didn’t want to ever talk about this—about any of it. He wanted to continue keeping secrets until he was old and grey. He wanted to go to his grave without ever discussing the clown again, or voicing the filthy thoughts that roll around in his head about River Phoenix and David Bowie and Eddie Kaspbrak and Stanley Uris and _Jesus tap-dancing Christ,_ he’s so entirely fucked, because his mother looks wounded by Richie’s violent reaction to her, and Richie isn’t a damned monster. He doesn’t want his parents who have only ever been kind and supportive to feel hurt by him.

He remembers the crosses that hang above every doorway in the Kaspbrak house, and how there are no crosses in his own home, and he thinks maybe it’s time to come clean. At least partially.

“Sorry, sorry,” Richie rushes out, pulling back from the wall slightly, posture still decently guarded, but beginning to unfurl as he beckons his mother over. “Sorry, I was just…”

“It’s alright, Rich,” his mother responds gently when Richie can’t seem to finish, slowly coming over to stand by the bed. His father watches from by Richie’s desk, concern etched into his features. “Can we sit?”

“Sure, I guess.” Maggie gingerly sits beside him, and so does Went, but neither of them are touching him, and Richie is grateful for that. He’s still half-terrified that they’ll _know_ the second they touch his skin with, like, transference or some crazy shit like that. His life is already such sci-fi bullshit, he wouldn’t be fucking surprised.

“Is everything… Is everything alright, son?” His father asks, and Richie can feel his eyes on the side of his face, but he continues to look at his fists clenched in his lap. “You’ve been so distant lately. We’re worried about you.”

“Everything’s fine,” Richie says, looking up to smile blithely at the wall. “Good ol’ Dick Tozier never misses a beat.” He isn’t sure what the Voice he uses is, somewhere between Spurned Newscaster Who Wants To Do Sports Instead Of Weather and Kinky Briefcase and something else entirely, something wounded that wasn’t there before Georgie went missing. If _he_ isn’t even sure what the Voice is, he knows his parents will have no idea. They don’t react to it, even his father who always goes along with his bits. Bad sign.

“It doesn’t have to be, you know. Fine, I mean,” Maggie says. “We’ll still love you if things are less-than-fine. You’ll still be Richie.”

“Will I, though?” Richie laughs, but the sound is completely devoid of humor. “That’s how I am, you know? I crack jokes. I don’t know who I am if I’m not covering something up.”

“Rich…” his mother says, and she sounds just as wounded as Spurned-Newscaster-Briefcase had, but she doesn’t have to use a Voice to try to hide it. Richie wonders how she can do that, how anyone can just _be honest_ like that.

Richie is fully aware of his own misgivings and defense mechanisms. He uses humor to cope with any situation, whether it be shitty, traumatic or actually funny. He didn’t see anything wrong with it until he realized that his inability to be honest was hindering his relationships. Maybe that’s why Beverly doesn’t talk to him in school and Stanley didn’t follow through with his offer to teach him some basic Yiddish and Mike almost never comes into town anymore unless he has to and Ben keeps his headphones on at all times, eyes to the floor, feet dragging behind him sluggishly, and Bill never calls, just isolates, and Eddie…

Well, Eddie is different. Eddie took what happened that summer harder than any of them at first, and he hid in his room for months. It terrified Richie, so he did everything he could to help Eddie come back from wherever he was hiding. And after the stupid lava lamp that Eddie seemed to appreciate more than Richie knew what to do with, they’ve been attached at the hip. Richie sneaks through Eddie’s window a lot, and they have Saturday Night Sleepovers almost every weekend, and while Richie knows he should be glad about this, that he didn’t lose all his friends, it’s hard to be happy when Eddie won’t stop _touching_ him. Back when he was always the one to sling an arm around Eddie’s shoulders, or pinch his cheeks, or ruffle his hair, it was manageable because he could control when it happened and he knew that Eddie would always playfully push him away.

But Eddie isn’t doing that anymore. In fact, he only ever seems to be pulling Richie closer, and it’s killing him as much as it's filling him up. He hugs Richie hello and goodbye every day, even fleetingly when they’re at school before anyone can mock them for it. He falls asleep on Richie’s shoulder at the movies and leans his full weight against Richie's side when he laughs at one of Gilda Radner’s jokes on Saturday Night Live. None of it's at all necessary, but he keeps doing it because Richie isn't stopping him (not that he even wants to), feigning obliviousness when in all actuality, every move that Eddie makes around him is scrutinized.

To put it simply, Richie’s once-disregardable crisis is now full-blown, and while he wants to avoid Eddie so he doesn’t have to face the ever-pressing reality of his situation, he can’t help but gravitate closer whenever Eddie is nearby. He feels like a small planet in Eddie’s solar system, circling around him for warmth and life, always within reach, orbiting him with no intentions of ever leaving. Eddie doesn’t seem to want him to either which makes the whole thing that much harder.

Richie _wants_ to isolate. He wants to be like Ben, Mike and Beverly and hide from the world. But he can’t. He shines too brightly to be considered normal, like a dying star in the ink-black darkness of Derry. There has never been a way for Richie to go quietly. Even his suicide attempt a little less than a year ago was messy.

He thinks about telling his parents about it, that he stole a bottle of sleeping pills from their medicine cabinet and only took six before pushing the bottle off the bed, scattering the pills all across the floor and crying himself to sleep (and then continuing to cry when he woke up 16 hours later). But he knows that’s a conversation he’d need to plan out before he has it, or else he might say something stupid or hurtful and make his parents think that his wanting to permanently quiet the never ending malignant thoughts running rampant in his head is their fault somehow, or something to be worried about—or worse, something to _pity._ If anything, his parents are two of the only things he has that keep him from trying again, and even though he’s accepted by now that the graphicness, severity, and frequency of his suicidal thoughts are _probably_ abnormal, he doesn’t want to worry anybody.

And most of the time, he’s fine. Really, honestly. He’s _great,_ even. So on top of the _fucking_ world that he doesn’t even notice that things are horribly wrong. Or, he does, but it's distant. There's so many other things to care about and pay attention to, so much so that he barely notices he has thoughts at all, much less life-ending ones. So what if the mania slips sometimes, and the confident mask cracks to reveal the ugliness beneath? So what if he jacks a few sleeping pills every once in a while, because he’s found if he takes four, he just becomes mildly hallucinatory and falls asleep without remembering to hate himself first? It’s all part of being a kid. Teen angst, as his mother affectionately calls it.

But then he thinks about the clown telling him he can’t even kill himself properly, and he knows that those weird manic days (weeks, months) he has are probably all compensation for how fucking _sad_ he really is all the time. He wonders if maybe he should tell his parents about Pennywise and the trauma he went through over the summer and why he suddenly has three new friends who all became so close so quickly. It all must’ve seemed strange to the untrained eye.

However, his throat closes up on the words when he tries to force them out. There’s a small part of him that thinks maybe if he were to really tell his parents about It, they might stop loving him. They might send him away to Juniper Hill with Henry Bowers and the rest of the crazies. And really, Richie wouldn’t blame them. Sometimes he _does_ feel crazy. His intense sadness, his overwhelming fear, his disgusting desires, his unflagging memories, they all make him feel like he deserves to be locked away. Maybe they call it Teen Angst because that sounds a lot nicer than Criminally Fucking Insane.

He doesn’t _want_ to be crazy. The idea of never seeing any of his friends or his parents again is too much to bear. They’re the only things that keep him afloat. Being able to come home and know he’s safe, knowing he has six phone numbers on the table next to the phone that he can call if the memories overtake him, it’s all that keeps him alive. He goes through the motions at school and succeeds with flying colors because books are easy for Richie. Formulaic. What has never made sense to him are _feelings._

Maybe it’s time to change that.

“Guys, I-I gotta tell you something,” Richie says, half-whisper, half-hope. They both nod encouragingly. He finally looks up at them and finds that their expressions are open and kind and wholly welcoming. He wonders if they’re always this way with Lucy, too, when he isn't around. He hopes so. “I’m… Uh…”

He thinks about the Sears catalog shoved between the mattress and the wall that they caught him with, and then he thinks about how he cut out images from dirty magazines for girls he discovered ditched at the quarry and hid them inside. Sometimes he jerks off to them, like they were intended for, and sometimes he just cries as he looks at the photos, knowing he’ll never be enough for anyone, and he wants to stop hiding. He doesn’t know if it’ll go well. Maybe those welcoming expressions will disappear forever if he tells them. Maybe he’ll even stop having a safe place to go. But he needs to get the words out right fucking now, even if he never says them to anyone else. Richie doesn’t do well hiding himself away. He burns far too brightly for that.

“I’m gay.”

There’s a short, deafeningly silent pause in which Richie thinks he might explode if nothing fills it, so he starts rambling. And once he does, it’s as if a dam has been broken and everything he’s been feeling just comes tumbling out at full-speed. “Well, I mean, mostly. You know? Like I feel like I _could_ be with a girl if she was the right girl and she was really cool and nice and pretty, because girls can be pretty, too. Like, really pretty. But I think if I was gonna be with any girl, it’d probably be Beverly, and I don’t even really want that. I mean, I did go on my first real date with her over the summer and everything, but it’s not like that with us. She’s just my best bud, you know? But with guys, it’s like… I get that feeling that I think I’m supposed to feel; that feeling they always talk about in movies and shit. All warm and nervous and tingly, tryna make ‘em laugh and stuff. The way I feel about, uh, this one guy in particular, is definitely _way_ different than I feel for Beverly or any of the other girls in my class, or... anyone, really.

“And I know I’m young and I’ve got years to figure it all out, but it’s been kinda fuckin’ killing me in the meantime because I feel like if anyone knows, it’ll change the way they see me. They’ll hate me because of it, or refuse to change in front of me in gym, or pity me, or hit me, or _kill_ me. I’m so afraid of dying when it isn’t my choice, or like, my time to go, you know? I feel like everything and everyone is just waiting for an opportunity to slice me in half when I’m not paying attention, and I don’t know what to do, guys. I-I-I’m so damn scared all the fucking time. I just wanna kiss a boy and have that be okay. But I know it’s not… It’s not okay…”

Richie almost never cries. Onions, death (or the present possibility of it), a very reluctant viewing of  _When Harry Met Sally_ with his sister, and shrouded in even more secret,  _Maurice,_  are pretty much the only things that have ever brought him to tears. The most recent of these was trapped within the walls of the sewers as Stanley writhed and screamed on the dirty concrete. His expression haunts Richie to this day, possibly even more so than the clown's. His inability to cry is a combination of conforming in vain attempts to be the man that society tells him he has to be and not really being much of a crier in the first place. But the longer he tells the truth he’s been painfully hiding with every ounce of his self-control, the harder it gets to keep the urge to stay composed at bay, and eventually, he just lets go. He weeps into his hands—hard, body-wracking sobs that sound ugly and choked.

He can’t look at his parents right now, possibly never will be able to again, because they’re silent. There’s a big difference, Richie’s noticed, between quiet and silent. Eddie, for example, has never been silent in his life. Quiet, sure. Sometimes he gets withdrawn and holds back the constant stream of consciousness begging to fall from his mouth. Richie loves that about him, how it’s never really truly silent around him, is always fun to be around even if they aren’t even doing anything special. Because Richie _hates_ silence. He can take the quiet, but silence makes it so that he can think. He doesn’t ever want to fall into his brain for too long because he’s terrified of what he’ll find in the cistern of his mind, so he reads and listens to music and sings to himself all the time and talks out loud even when no one else is around. He has to distract from himself constantly, or he thinks he might get lost in the darkness trapped inside him forever.

The tape playing from his boombox has ended and his parents are completely still beside him, and because it’s _silent,_ Richie knows he’s fucked up. Silence is the greatest enemy of hope. Where there’s words, there’s a chance for redemption, a way to talk himself out of the messes he makes. There’s no way out of this one, and he knows it. He thinks whoever invented honesty just wanted to watch the world burn.

But then his father places a large, calloused hand on his back, and his mother rests hers at the nape of his neck. The touches are so feather-light and not at all violent that Richie doesn’t even flinch from them on instinct. His sobs subside, but he keeps his head buried in his hands as he waits for the silence to turn into quiet.

And then it does.

“It’s okay, Richie,” his father says softly, and Richie goes boneless at those words, slumping in on himself.

 _It’s okay,_ he repeats to himself like a prayer. _It’s okay._

“I know you think it isn’t because the world we live in is very ugly and cruel,” Maggie continues, voice so gentle he thinks he might break, “but whatever you’re feeling, it’s okay. At least in this house it is.”

Richie lets out one sharp sob at that and then goes quiet. No longer silent, but welcoming the quiet as he leans into his father’s shoulder and grabs onto his mother’s free hand. He lets his breathing slow into something more relaxed, and he has never been so relieved in his life.

Richie Tozier is on the precipice of 14 years old. He cracks a lot of jokes and wears a lot of masks to distract from the ugliness beneath them he hopes no one ever has to see. But with a few comforting words from his parents, he thinks maybe what’s underneath doesn’t have to be all that ugly if someone else doesn’t think it is.

“So… This _one boy,_ huh?” His father teases, elbowing Richie lightly. “This _one boy_ got a name?” Richie snorts.

“Fuck off,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. Ten minutes ago, he thought he might never smile again. Pretty fucking cool.

“Hey! Language!” Maggie laughs, and things are still normal. They don’t have to act like anything has changed, even though, in reality, everything has.

He remembers being 9 years old and knowing without a shadow of a doubt that he was ugly. But with a few honest words from his best friend, telling him his mouth was _pretty,_ he thought maybe he didn’t have to be ugly to everyone. He remembers this one Twilight Zone episode he watched on New Year’s Eve this year: The Eye of the Beholder. The idea of it had stuck with him far longer than the shock of the horror had: beauty to most means normalcy, but it never has to Richie or any of his friends, and he supposes it doesn’t to his parents either.

Maybe there’s a bit of luck in the cards for him after all. Maybe there’s still some hope left for good ol' Dick Tozier.


	4. March, 1991

_And if they sent a whirlwind_  
_I'd hug it like a harmless little tree_  
_Or an earthquake, I_ _'d calm it_  
_And I'd bring you back to me_  
_And I'd hold you_  
_In my weak arms like a first born_  
  
_I'd walk through hell for you_  
_Let it burn right through my shoes_  
_These soles are useless without you_  
_Through hell for you_  
_Let the torturing ensue_  
_My soul is useless without you_

—A Walk Through Hell, Say Anything

 

Richie Tozier is turning 15 years old today, and he's, for all intents and purposes, happy. At least today he is.

Usually, he isn't happy, which is no fault of anyone's but his own. It isn’t that he doesn’t love his family, and fucking adore his friends, because he does. He sure as shit does, and those facts are being proven true more and more every day. They definitely make him happy. None of them ever make him feel ashamed to be… well, alive.

See, Richie never saw much wrong with being the way he is until the clown told him he should be. Perhaps he’d repressed how he really felt about the comments spat at him in the schoolyard by the Bowers Gang. He always figured that they were just ugly, hateful folks who didn’t know any better, and if they wanted to torment Richie, he was going to torment them right back, even if it was in a far less violent way than they tormented him and the rest of the Losers. Richie always considered them to be the flaw in the weld, the break in the mould. Even after the summer of ‘89, Richie never really hated himself for his sexuality.

Okay, well. Not _exclusively._ He just has always had more pressing reasons to hate himself than being gay-ish.

Which might be why he blurts it out in Stanley’s bedroom the day of his 15th birthday—maybe he hates himself for it more than he'll ever allow himself to internalize.

Beverly is coming over to Stanley's later because the two of them can't go to Portland with him and the rest of the Losers at the end of the week for his birthday present gifted by his parents. They're gonna do go-karts and laser tag. It’s gonna be a real fuckin’ blast (or, if you're Wentworth Tozier and a total fucking dweeb, a hoot) but it’s never the best time in the world without his two best pals. He told them as much at lunch today, and Bev softly asked him he wanted her to come over to his house tonight for dinner, give him his present there. Stanley offered his house to the both of them, and Richie readily agreed to these terms; if he’s lucky, Stan’s parents won’t be home from work yet and he can slide down the banister of their staircase. They always keep it waxed. It's fuckin' awesome.

However, he became distracted from his endeavor when Stanley began gushing about a girl in his Chem class. And Stanley _never_ gushes. Beverly hasn’t come over yet, and Richie is finding himself more and more antsy with every moony word out of Stanley’s mouth. It’s getting old fast, this gross girl-crush stuff.

“She’s tall, too. Almost as tall as I am. She’s on the softball team, so that’s why we started talking, and—”

“Whoo-ee, Stan Lee, looks like you’ve got yerself a real nice lady for the hoedown!” Richie cries, using his already-balled-up fists to dance awkwardly, bouncing on the bed. “Have ya brought ‘er home to meet the folks? Ya got enough cattle to make a purchase?”

“God, Trashmouth, you’re a real piece of fuckin’ work…” Stanley sighs.

"Sure am, Stan the Man," he smirks.

Stan sighs, "Richie," and he's using his I'm A Bitter Old Man At 14 Voice, so Richie knows he's in deep shit, "I listen when you ramble on about shit I don't care about."

"Woah woah woah!" Richie shouts, putting up his hands in a show of truce. "I never said I didn't _care!_ I'm just waiting for it to get juicy, that's all!"

"It's not _gonna_ get juicy, dickweed. We're 14 years old."

"Maybe _you_ are!" Richie grins. "Some of us are fully grown, though. Adults even."

"Fully grown?!" Stanley exclaims. "Fifteen isn't special, Richie. You can't see R rated movies or drive or—"

"I _know,"_ Richie groans, flopping back down on the bed, bouncing a few times just for the drama of it. "I've been watching R rated movies since I was, like, 12. Terminator still holds up."

"Okay, Trashmouth, we get it. You're cool." Stanley rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically.

"Damn straight!"

"Can we _please_ get back on topic?"

"Ugh, the topic of your absolutely _riveting_ Romeo and Juliet love story with the girl across the room from you in Soc?" Richie rolls his eyes right back. "Please continue. I'm glued to my seat."

"What would make it more enticing for you, Richie?" Stan snorts derisively. "Please, I'm all ears."

"Maybe if it were about two dudes instead," he grumbles. It takes him a solid eight seconds for him to realize that he's just, uh, basically come out of the fucking closet, but when he does, he shoots up straight in bed to find Stanley staring at him wide-eyed and slack-jawed. "Uh," Richie says rather eloquently, "I mean."

_Nailed it._

"You mean..." Stanley repeats, dumbfounded.

"Yeah. Gay. Me, that's... that's me. I mean, sort of. There's really no better word for it, but I kinda call it mostly-gay."

"Mostly?" Stanley chokes out. "You mean you've—"

"No!" Richie rushes out. "Whatever you're going to say, no, I haven't. I haven't even kissed anyone for real."

"But you're sure," Stanley says. It comes out more of a statement then the question in his eyes betrays.

"I mean, yeah. Again: mostly."

“Does anyone else know?” Stanley asks, hushed, reverent, like he's at temple. Like this is suddenly holy ground.

“Uh, yeah.” Richie scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, unused to ever being considered holy in any way, especially by Stanley Fucking Uris, Master of Disaffection. “Bev. My folks.” He looks away. “Eddie.”

“Oh,” Stanley says, his voice coming out small and a little strained, but when Richie darts his eyes back to him, he's smiling. “Cool.”

“Yeah? You're not, like, weirded out or anything?”

Stanley wrinkles his nose in disgust, like the idea of being grossed out by Richie's sexuality is somehow more repulsive than the thing itself. “No. Why would I be?”

“I dunno,” Richie shrugs, but he definitely does know. “Doesn't God have some shit to say about the queers? _Man shalt not lie with man,_ and all that crap-jazz?” He quotes the verse in a deep Voice, a rendering of God, probably. He's too strung out on nerves to really dissect it.

“That's in Leviticus, which is where most of the weird stuff in the Torah is from. Plus, I think a lot of stuff got lost and changed in translation,” Stanley says, puffing out his chest a little, prideful to be so well-informed. “If you ask me, people who believe that racist, homophobic crap aren't really God’s children. Spouting hate isn't what God was all about.”

“Oh, yeah? What was He all about then?” Richie pretends to wave a magnifying glass between the two of them and squints one eye. Stanley actually chuckles, even though it admittedly wasn't a very good joke, which Richie thinks might be the most polite thing Stan's ever done in his presence.

 _“Love thy neighbor,”_ Stanley smiles, serene. That same breathy tone he had when he responded to Richie's (pretty shitty) coming out 'speech' has returned, and it makes Richie smile back. He never thought he'd get the chance to be holy.

They're torn from their reverie when the doorbell rings; Beverly undoubtedly, coming over for dinner like she promised. Richie's smile turns into a wily grin as he sprints out of Stanley's room and runs down the hall to slide down the banister, all whilst screaming, _"I'm lucky, you're lucky, we're alllll lucky!"_ He manages to make it down the whole flight of stairs without falling and cracking his skull open like Stanley always tells him he's going to, but no one is even around to see it, so he's moping when he lets Beverly in.

"Damn, Rich, what, Stan not let you have your birthday cookies?" Beverly snickers when she enters, shutting the door behind her when Richie stares at her dumbfounded, jaw dropped dramatically.

 _"Cookies?!"_ he shrieks up at Stanley who's waiting for them at the top of the landing. "You forced me to listen to your heterosexual _drivel,_ all whilst depriving me of cookies?! You _monster!"_

"Oh, absolutely," Stanley sighs, rolling his eyes. "Definitely a monster for baking you cookies before you got here and then forgetting about it when Hurricane Richie tore apart my room looking for—what was it, evidence?"

"Blackmail, actually. Was looking for your tape recorder to immortalize said heterosexual drivel," Richie grins, but it drops in an instant, narrowing his eyes and adopting a Gangster Voice. "Where ya hidin' yer stash, boss?"

"They're in the kitchen, come on," Stanley sighs, coming down the stairs to meet him and Beverly where they're already at the stove, arguing about who deserves the biggest cookie. "Children, please," he says, only a joke, just a joke, "keep the peace."

Beverly's spine goes ramrod straight in an instant. "Sorry dad," she says, perfunctory, robotic, words from a past life. It's just a flash, but Richie can see the moment where she realizes what she's said, and she looks genuinely frightened. But then she looks at Stan, finds it's just him and not Alvin Marsh, and lets out a soft, "oh."

"Woah. Hey," Richie says gently, hand hovering over her shoulder, but not letting it make contact, "you good?" When Bev looks up at him, her eyes are cloudy. She looks lost even though she's standing right in front of him. "You can have the big cookie if you want." Richie offers it to her, waving it under her nose when she doesn't acknowledge him so that the scent can hopefully infiltrate the small, locked chest inside her head she hides in whenever she remembers her father.

Richie watches as the smokescreen veiling her eyes clears and she begins to remember where she is, and who she's with. She turns to Stanley, who looks a little bit frightened too, like he's afraid he's done something wrong. Richie doesn't want to tell him this isn't the first or last time this will happen, that Bev will sometimes go into hiding for a few minutes every now and then and they just have to wait it out. He doesn't though, because he isn't sure if Beverly even knows this happens at all, or if she wants this divulged to Stan.

Richie knows it's passed when she flashes Stanley an easy grin and wraps one arm around his neck quickly in greeting. She turns to Richie and plucks the cookie out of his limp fingers. "Thanks, babe," she winks, mouth full as she turns to go back up to Stanley's room. Stan turns to him, confused and nervous.

"What was that? Did I do something wrong?"

Richie shakes his head, cherry-picking the best cookies and putting them on a plate. "It's all good, Stan the Man. Grab some milk?"

"I don't have three hands, asshole!" Stan calls to Richie's retreating form.

Richie turns, says, _"I'll be back,_ " in his Terminator Voice as he ascends the stairs once more. He enters Stan's room to find Bev perched on the edge of the bed, looking a little shell-shocked.

"Hey, Levvie," he says, the Mr. Confident Voice coming out comfortable, easy, like an old friend. He knows Bev won't want to talk about it somewhere she isn't entirely comfortable, so he tries to lead her into something easier. Or, at least different. He takes a cookie, stuffing the whole thing into his mouth at once, and puts the plate down on Stan's desk. "I told Stan," he says, mouth full of cookie, so it comes out more as, "I tolth Thtan." Beverly seems to get the gist of it anyway.

"Told him what?" she asks, a little scared when she meets his eyes.

"About my, uh, gayness," he says, giving a little jazz-hand.

"Oh," she says, and then it registers, and her eyes widen. "Oh! Oh, shit, Ditch. Is it all good?"

"Yeah, for sure," Richie says, flipping his hand as he moves to sit beside Beverly. "All good."

"Wow. Cool." She smiles at him. "What'd you tell him?"

"Uh, just that I'm, you know, mostly-gay. Still don't know how that can be a thing, but... whatever."

"Me neither," she chuckles, "but is it really the biggest deal that you don't know? I mean, you know you like dudes, right?"

"Yeah, definitely," he says, nodding emphatically. "Dick likes dick."

"Christ," she snorts, shaking her head. "Okay. And you like girls, too, yeah? So who cares if there isn't a word for it. It's just you, you know? Just who you are. Richie Tozier, 4.0 GPA, who likes chicks and dicks." She winks at him and Richie laughs.

"I mean, I'm less certain about that first one," he frowns. "I mean, I think I do, you know? Like girls. They're nice and all; pretty and soft and sweet and good-smelling and whatever... You get it."

Beverly is quiet as she looks down, nervously picking at her light-wash high-waisted jeans, the ones with the bangle chains on the hip, accidental paint splattering from an argument with Richie in Art, and a big rip in the thigh that Richie thinks makes her look a little like Cyndi Lauper. She's even got the suspenders over the t-shirt thing going. She looks good, always does, and Richie wishes just a little that he loved her the same way he loves Eddie. He thinks he could, if he tried hard enough. It's just that loving Eddie is easy like breathing is, like it came pre-programmed in his reptile brain, whereas the idea of loving Beverly in the same way makes him feel a little dizzy, and not in the fun way.

"Maybe you just need to test it, you know? Just to see," Bev says, speaking quickly, like she's nervous to even be suggesting... whatever it is she's suggesting.

"You mean like... _kiss ze girl?"_ He leans in close and sings like Sebastian from The Little Mermaid, which causes Bev to groan loudly. "C'mon, Levvie! Don't you want ta —  _kiss ze girl?"_

"I'm _trying_ to be a good friend, Trashmouth, and you're making it incredibly fucking difficult."

"I've been known to do that," he shrugs.

"Just—" Beverly cuts herself off with a harsh, frustrated sigh, and then leans in to cup Richie's cheek. His eyes widen dramatically. "I'm gonna kiss you."

"You are?" He squeaks.

"Yeah."

"Why?" He's still squeaking. He sounds fucking pre-pubescent. Maybe he _is_ straight after all, if the mere thought of Beverly kissing him is rendering him a preteen idiot, and the idea of loving her makes him dizzy.

"Because, Ditchie," she laughs, removing her hand when she realizes it's causing Richie anxiety, "I'm a girl, and I'm offering to help you figure it out. It's just a kiss. I was trying to be smooth."

"Oh," he says. "You were definitely smooth. I'm just an idiot."

"This we've always known," she nods, giving him a small, confident smile. Richie loves her, and it doesn't feel the same as his love for Eddie, but he doesn't think it needs to.

"Okay, so... Yeah! Yeah, okay," Richie grins, bobbing his head in agreement. "But no tongue. I ain't that kinda gal."

She laughs and shakes her head as she puts her hand back on Richie's jaw and angles their faces together.

"Sure, Trashmouth." And then she kisses him. To be honest, it isn't _great._ It's no fault of Beverly's, really, Richie just isn't exactly finding nirvana in her vanilla Lip Smackers. He runs a hand through her short, curly hair, thinking maybe that if he gets more into it, he'll be able to feel more normal about kissing a girl when it's his choice to make as opposed to the kiss with Madeline that was sprung upon him, but he doesn't. And it doesn't feel like he's kissing his sister or anything weird like that. It's just like... he's kissing his best friend. It's actually kind of nice, he thinks, the longer it lasts.

Eventually, Richie brings both hands up to cup her cheeks gently, and begins lightly slapping each of them in an alternating pattern. She pulls away with a laugh, her hand still cupping the back of Richie's neck, and ducks her head to hide the blush in her cheeks.

"So?" She prompts, looking up from beneath her fringe. Richie's immediately struck by how fucking beautiful she is, but his stomach doesn't churn at the sight; she just looks like home. "Did I rock your world?"

"Oh, _absolutely,_ Levvie," he laughs, wrapping his arms around her neck and tackling her to the bed. She goes easily, more easily than Richie ever remembers her doing previously when it comes to physical touch. She even curls up in his arms, craning her neck so her head fits beneath Richie's chin. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, grateful to have someone like her feel so comfortable with him. She's his favorite little rascal.

"Thanks, Bev," he whispers. He can feel her smile against his collarbone.

"Welcome."

They're only curled up together for a few moments before Richie suddenly remembers, "Shit, _Stan,"_ and tumbles off the bed in his efforts to make it out of the room quicker. "Stay here, I gotta go help Stan with the milk, shit, fuck."

He manages to make it down the stairs in three seconds flat _(without_ sliding down the banister, which he thinks makes him deserve the Olympic gold medal in Resisting Temptation) and skids into the kitchen to find Stanley with two glasses of milk beside him where he's got his back to Richie, elbows on the counter and his head in his hands, surrounded by broken glass and spilled milk at his feet.

"Oh, shit," Richie repeats.

"Fuck off," Stanley snaps, but it's half-hearted, tired. He's refusing to pick his head up from where he's got it hidden in his hands, which is a bad sign if Richie's ever seen one. "That was really shitty, Rich."

"What?" Richie frowns, "The milk?"

"Yeah, dick, the milk." Stanley turns and glares at Richie, a sea of broken glass between them. Richie wants to apologize, but the words get stuck in his throat when he notices there's tears in Stanley's eyes.

"Where's the broom? Also, sponge?" Richie asks, bustling around the kitchen, opening the pantry door. He turns though, worriedly asking, "Wait, are you hurt? Do you need me to call Eddie? He can bring over his—"

"The _last_ thing I need is for Eddie to come over," Stanley seethes. Richie's eyes widen, fumbling with the roll of paper towels he procured.

"Woah. Why are you mad at Eds?"

Stanley sighs, stripping his hands over his face so hard he leaves four faint scratches on each cheek. Richie remembers the twenty-four bite marks around the side of Stanley's face that have taken the last two years to turn to faint scars, and how there's no paintings hung up in the Uris house at all, and Richie's heart begins pounding even harder than it was before.

"I'm not angry at Eddie, Richie. I'm angry at _you,_ my best friend who I offered my house to so I could spend time with him on his birthday and then who proceeded to ignore me when I _was_ there, and then forget I existed when something shiner came around. Adding Eddie to the mix would only further the reasons to forget I exist. _Nobody_ exists for you when Eddie is around, but I know that, we all do, and we accept it. You love him most. It's okay. Really, it is. But when it's anybody else, Rich, it just _hurts._ It's like, I know you don't care about me—no one does—but you don't have to be so goddamn obvious about it."

"What?" Richie breathes, shaking his head furiously, brows furrowed in confusion and hurt, hands trembling since Stan began talking about his feelings for Eddie. He had no idea he was being so fucking obvious, but that's a conversation for a different time. Right now, he needs Stanley to know that he's _wrong_ about everything else. "No, Stan, no, of course I care about you. That's not at all what happened."

"That's _exactly_ what happened," Stanley responds, but instead of snapping, his voice is hollow, like it's been years since he last felt something that wasn't fear or anger. Richie feels something harden in his chest where his heart should be. "You're not my friend."

"Stan, _stop._ Please, please stop," Richie begs, halfway to tears himself. He wishes he could go to Stan and not get his feet sliced up. He wishes Stan even _wanted_ to go to him. "Stan, I love you. Of course you're my friend. I made a mistake, and I'm really sorry. Please tell me where the broom is so I can give you a fucking hug, okay?"

"I don't want a fucking hug," Stan snaps, but it makes Richie smile regardless, because at least if Stanley is angry at him, that terrifying emptiness from before is gone. Stan points to the opposite corner of the kitchen where the broom and dustpan are sitting. "It's right there, you moron."

Richie rushes over and quickly scoops up the glass into the dustpan before dumping it in the trash and giving Stanley a hug anyway. He grumbles and doesn't return the favor, but he doesn't pull away, either. Richie considers it a victory.

"You're standing in a puddle of milk," Stanley says.

"Yeah, and I'm wearing socks, too," Richie chuckles, and if it sounds a bit garbled through the tears he's choking back, neither of them comment on it. "The things we do for love."

"Richie?"

"Yeah?"

"Did you really not care about Bailey?" Richie wracks his brain for a moment, coming up empty, until Stan sighs and clarifies, "My crush."

"Oh! I mean, I don't really know her. But I care about  _you,_ buddy, so I care about her a modicum more than I do about most random girls."

"Okay," Stanley says, the smile apparent in his voice. "I'm sorry I freaked out."

"That's alright, man," Richie says, rubbing circles into his back in a vain attempt to make this less weird than it is.

There's a long pause, and Richie's about to pull away because Stanley's still, like, standing there like a rag doll and not an active participant in this hug, when he quietly admits, "I know you're my friend."

It sounds like he's trying to convince himself of it, even though it's 100% the truth, so Richie squeezes him even tighter and says, "You fuckin' better, because you're damn right I am."

It takes longer than Richie would have liked, but eventually, Stanley slowly and unconfidently wraps his arms around Richie's waist. With his arms come a question, posed just as slowly and unconfidently as the hug: "Richie, do you ever... feel really... like, you really wanna die?"

"Sure," Richie replies easily. "Everyone does sometimes, I think."

"But I feel that way... most of the time. Sometimes I think about, like... how great it would be if I got hit by, like, a bus or something. Is that normal?"

Richie shrugs and digs his chin into Stan's shoulder. He doesn't know how to respond without telling Stan he feels the same, that he's done _way_ more than just hope he gets hit by a bus. But maybe Stan has too, and he's just worried about how it might come across. Richie doesn't want to say the wrong thing, he's  _always_ saying the wrong thing, and he knows Stan is really vulnerable right now. He wants to help, but he doesn't really know how, because if he did, maybe he'd be able to help himself. So instead, he just says, "I think so. I mean, it's you, and _you're_ normal."

Stan snorts, "I am _not_ normal."

"No, Stan, _I'm_ not normal. I'm literally standing in a puddle of milk just so I can give you a hug." Stanley laughs softly and rests his cheek on Richie's shoulder. "By comparison, you're, like, the most normal person to ever walk the face of the earth."

"That's true," Stanley says, and Richie can feel him smiling against his collarbone just like he could with Bev only ten minutes ago. It's nice, he thinks, that he made and strengthened so many friendships in the summer of '89 that not even the clown could touch. He loves Beverly so deeply, and he loves Stan with the exact same fervor, and he never thought in a million years he'd be grateful for a demon clown from space, but he is. Without that dumbass clown, he wouldn't have Beverly, and without It, he might not have realized what a vital part of his life Stanley is.

Even though he's standing in a puddle of milk and might've just come very, very close to losing one of his best friends over it, Richie still thinks this might be the best birthday he's ever had. And he still gets to do laser tag at the end of the week! So what if it isn't with the entire Losers' Club, and he loses his chance to call them the Lasers Club. He's still happy. Happy enough, at least. He's scared for Beverly and the frequency and intensity in which her hiding spells are increasing, and Stan _did_ just tell him he wants to kill himself most of the time. Richie is so scared that all his friends will all leave, and he'll be left with nothing, no one around but himself. He thinks if Hell is personalized, that's going to be his. If he can't be only happy, Richie thinks a happy medium is scared  _and_ happy. He thinks that's pretty much the best he's ever gonna get in this life, anyway.

But the Lucky Seven are nothing if not a family. Seven equally important pieces, all fitting together in a way they feel is impossible outside of their group, making each other happy even when it might very well _be_  impossible. And sure, it's corny as balls, but Richie loves their little pack of rascal misfits—way more than he could ever love himself. But it's still good that at least he loves anything at all. Hugging Stanley in a puddle of milk and kissing Beverly while covered in cookie crumbs is far, far better than the hell of loneliness.


	5. January, 1992

_While the years have clawed at us and tears have gnawed at us  
_ _The song in my head still resounds_  
_And I hope that one day, dear friend, you will come around_

 _Oh Eddie baby, won’t you come to my arms tonight?  
_ _I beg and plead you, please succumb to my charms tonight  
_ _I give my heart  
_ _But you take it and you break it and you tear it apart_  
_Oh Eddie baby, won’t you come to my arms?_

—Eddie Baby, Felix Hagan & The Family

 

Richie has always said (in a joking manner of course, despite the fact that it’s true) that his favorite color is Eddie Kaspbrak’s eyes—mostly because they change color basically every day, so he’ll never have to commit to only one. It’s gotten to the point where Richie can predict what color they’ll turn based on the type of lighting they’re in, or the weather, or even just how Eddie’s feeling that day.

Today, Eddie’s eyes are on Richie more than usual, but they’re a color Richie has never seen before and it's kind of tripping him up to say the least.

It’s a snow day, school is closed due to inclement weather, and the Losers are all sledding down Up-Mile Hill despite the fact that it’s, well, a street. Cars have tried to go by several times, but due to how slippery the roads are and how lax their sanitation department is, there’s no salt or sand on the roads, so people who have attempted to brave the weather to get to work are forced to turn back when they find they can’t make it down the hill without skidding out. They haven’t even bothered to clear the roadway for oncoming traffic, so the Losers’ Club set up shop on it, claiming they’re the Snow Police.

It’s a fucking free-for-all in Derry, Maine on this cold, February day, and Richie is over the moon about the entire thing. All his friends are here (even Mike, considering Up-Mile Hill is about as close to his farm as it is from everyone else’s houses in town—a good middle ground), the snow is fresh, and he can’t find a single thing to be unhappy about.

Well, except for Eddie’s eyes.

His best friend’s irises are usually some shade of grey mixed with brown. In the right light, they can look cobalt blue which is fuckin’ _sick_ because that’s Richie’s eye color! _Twinsies,_ he calls them when it happens, and cherishes the sour look Eddie always gets after that. He never calls Eddie out on it because he knows if he does, he’ll probably say something stupid like, _I wanna marry you and have your impossible babies._

Gross. _Feelings._

But, whatever, Richie’s come to terms with them _he supposes._ He’s come out to five whole people and the world didn’t bust and break open. Five people—ones he loves more than he thought was previously possible—know he’s, like, mostly-gay. That’s what he’s calling it now because he doesn’t have the balls to look any of this shit up in the library like some _nerd,_  and the nerds he _does_ know aren’t aware of his proclivity for dick over vag (namely, Ben and Mike. Bill also has no idea, but Bill's less of what Richie categorizes as Nerd and is all by his lonesome in the Oh My God If He Hates Me I'll Die section).

And he’s come to terms with the fact that, yeah, girls are cool, too. He jacks off a lot because he’s 15 and gross and gets turned on when the wind blows. And sometimes he thinks about girls while he does it. If Jenny in his Geometry class wears that pretty white dress that looks real nice against her tan skin, he can get a little hot under the collar, and he’s pretty sure her looking back to make sure he’s watching when she picks up her dropped pencil means Bang Time, but he’s nearly 16 years old; to him, everything means Bang Time. It doesn’t help that any and all genders are fascinating to him.

Last Halloween, Bev wore a classic Dodger’s uniform for their party, neatly tucking her mop of hair under a baseball cap, and she looked so damned  _sexy_ that Richie almost busted a nut, which is uncool because they’re friends and Bev is Off Limits, not because she _belongs_ to anybody else or some gross shit like that, but because she’s confided too much in him over the years about the absolutely fucking _disgusting_ shit her dad did to her for him to ever cross her in that way. Sure, she’s hot as hell, all his friends are, but he straight-up _refuses_ to jack off over her. In his heart of hearts, he considers Bev to be family. She’s his best friend, his first kiss, and he’d defend her to the ends of the earth, so he firmly cockblocks himself when it comes to her. He loves her too much to ever make her uncomfortable.

But he still can’t help but be _fascinated_ by her. With her hair still shorn and her twiggy, wiry frame, she looks almost like a dude in the right light. A tomboy, Bill calls her every now and then with a fond grin. Which makes Richie wonder what it would take for _him_ to look like a _chick_ in the right light. Maybe Bill would call him a tomgirl and give him that same little smile. Probably not, because he doesn’t think tomgirls actually exist, or are allowed to exist, but still. Fascinating.

So, like, gender is one thing; he’s pretty okay with the fact that he really likes wearing his sister's dresses because they’re _comfy_ and, okay, maybe he likes looking at himself in the mirror and seeing a completely unidentifiable creature. So what! That’s _normal._ His body is exploding, and with puberty at its (hopefully) final climax, he’s dealing with bullshit like _acne_ and _public boners_ more regularly. It’s awful, so sometimes he likes to forget he has a dick at all. Like, don’t get him wrong, he _loves_ his dick, but it’s still kind of nice to pretend for a few hours (when no one else is around, of course) that he doesn’t have to deal with any of that shit at all.

And he’s comfortable with that. He doesn’t find it weird to experiment with one’s identity—that’s what being 16 is for. What he _isn’t_ so comfortable with isn't so much that he'll pop a boner if Eddie so much as bends the right way (it's the damned shorts, he swears to fucking god Eddie is _testing_ him), but more that butterflies start detonating in his stomach and exploding like pop rocks if Eddie gives him that funny little smile that says _you’re so weird, but I like you that way._

Dick-boners are one thing, but _heart-boners?_ No fucking thank you. He’d rather get hit by a bus than deal with actually liking Eddie Kaspbrak the way you do when you wanna kiss someone all the time and marry them and pick out _wallpaper samples_ with them or what-the-fuck-ever kind of domestic shit adults do when they love each other. Paint nurseries for their hetero babies. He’s started seeing everything in terms of Eddie, too, which is the most obvious sign that _feelings_ are afoot—shit like,  _Eddie told me a few years ago that he likes magnolias, I gotta make sure to remember to pick him some from the tree in the backyard of the library that one weird week in April that they bloom,_ or, _shit, Eds would love this song, I hope the DJ says the name afterwards. I can’t miss it,_ and when he inevitably _does_ miss it, he grabs a grody, sticky pen from the center console of his mom’s car and writes down all the lyrics he can remember on his arm just in case anyone at school recognizes it.

If he _isn’t_ thinking about Eddie, something's wrong—more wrong than the fact that he’s thinking about Eddie this much at all.

Richie notices things about Eddie, too, more than he does anyone else aside from _maybe_ Bev or Stan, and he _definitely_ doesn’t notice them the way he notices Eddie. With Stan, he notices things like his nervous tics—skin-picking when he wants to feel clean, foot-tapping when he’s trying to keep his mouth shut about something he’s annoyed over. Richie carries gum in his pocket for these times, and it always seems to calm Stanley down. He thinks it’s less about the gum and more that somebody has noticed him at all. Ever since the Crying Over Spilled Milk incident last year, Richie has kept a more watchful eye on his favorite boy scout. He hasn't changed much in the way he interacts with him, because he knows that Stanley would hate it even more than being ignored if Richie were to suddenly start treating him like porcelain—just shit like inviting him over to make matzo ball soup, and inevitably abandoning ship when he measures the mix wrong and it expands and explodes all over the stove and just watching Ghostbusters instead. Stanley doesn't need much; just enough to make it impossible to forget that he's loved.

And with Bev, he can tell when she’s about to spiral into those attacks she gets. They’re different than Eddie’s, he’s come to know that well, and he doesn’t treat them the same at all anymore. When Eddie is freaking out, he likes to be held, to feel safe and secured and cared for, but Beverly prefers to have no part of her touching another person. The first time it happened in front of him, when she hides in her own head and her eyes go blank and dead, Richie tried to hold her the way he does Eddie when he panics, and she flinched and let out a tight, short scream, eyes wide and terrified. Richie doesn’t ever want to be considered a threat by his friends, but by none more so than Bev. He knows she’s had her fair share of ugly interactions with dudes, has seen them firsthand with the likes of Mr. Keene and their Global teacher from last year Mr. Hawthorne.

Richie kinda wants to punt any guy who looks at Bev for too long across a football field, but _especially_ the grown ones. _She's, like, 15 years old,_ he snapped at Mr. Keene a few months ago on a day when he was feeling particularly like shit and decided to voice it, so Bev invited him over to her aunt's to eat Skittles and watch Clueless. Mr. Keene did his whole Googly Eyes, I'm A Disgusting Asshole routine, and since Richie's Bullshit Meter was at full capacity, he freaked.  _Get a fucking life,_ he told him. He hasn't been allowed back in, but he doesn't exactly regret it. Freese's is just as good a place to get candy as the drugstore anyway, and since Eddie doesn't need any prescriptions picked up now that he's officially off his one-hitter (or, technically two-hitter, if Eddie were to actually use the aspirator correctly), Richie sees no point in going in at all. The whole drugstore could burn to the ground for all he cares. Hopefully Keene'll be inside when it does. That would be delightful news.

Richie wishes he didn’t have to be seen as just another dude by Beverly, that he could wear the one old dress from his mom's days as a vigilante bra-burner he’s stolen permanently from her closet in front of Bev and have that be enough to convince her he isn't _just_ another dude. Or at least, he doesn't _feel_ like just another dude. He supposes it doesn't really matter if he ever wears it in front of people. Wearing dresses sometimes doesn't make him a girl and he knows that—Bev barely ever wears dresses anymore and she sure as shit is one—he just puts it on when he feels a little brave, a little scared. So what if he's a little bit of both, just like he wants to dick a little bit of both? He doesn't think he'd be himself if he didn't like everyone that moves, want to _be_ everything that moves.

But that’s not something people are honest about. That’s the kind of stuff you hide because it gets you sent to Juniper. Richie’s not crazy, so he hides the dress, and he lets Bev think he’s just another dude. It’s easier that way. They're always going to have to hold each other at arms length just slightly because of it, but that's fine. He'd rather get slammed in the face by her hiding spells every time they happen, never be able to predict them but know what to do when they come on, than to say,  _hey, I don't really think I'm exclusively a dude. Please don't tell anyone or I might get sent away._ Richie is rarely  _ever_ wholly honest, as if he's going to suddenly change that. No, his selectively-truthful lifestyle works just fine for him, and he'd like to keep it that way, so to Beverly Marsh and the rest of the world, he's Richie Tozier, Regular Guy.

But because he's been more honest with Eddie than pretty much anyone on earth, telling him pretty much everything _except_ hey-I-don't-really-think-I'm-exclusively-a-dude, he can sense any and every mood shift in him coming from a mile away. The moment Eddie comes into view, just by his body language, eye color and facial expression, Richie can pretty much predict how the day will go. It’s like a superpower, except sorta useless for everyone except himself and sometimes Eddie. He supposes a selfish superpower is better than none at all.

Today, however, has been different from the start.

From the moment Richie called his house to demand he come out and play, citing that even Mike was heading over from the farm as enticement, he could tell something was off. Eddie seemed more morose than usual, giving dull, emotionless refusals.

_My mom won’t let me._

_Well, fuck your mom! I do it all the time!_ Silence. _C'mon, do it anyway!_

_I can’t._

_Aw, please, Eds? It won’t be the same without your pretty face. My ma can pick you up! Can'tcha, ma?_

_Leave your mother alone, Richie._

_But she said yes! Actually, she said ‘of course, Eddie is always welcome.’ Isn’t she just a_ **_darling,_ ** _Eds?_

_Uh-huh._

_So you’ll come?_

_Richie, my mom._

_Eddie. Please. I-I miss you. You’ve been sick for weeks, I’ve only seen you, like,_ **_once._ ** _That’s gotta be against some sort of law._

_You’ve seen me twice just this week at school, and it’s not against any laws. Don’t worry, my mom checked. I’m just over the truancy limit._

_Wow, Eds, don’t sound so excited._

A long-suffering sigh. _You know I miss you, too, Richie._

 _Of course you do, I’m amazing._ Another sigh. _No, I… I-I know. C’mon, Bill’ll be so sullen and weird and moody if you don’t show up. You know how he gets._

 _Yeah._ One last sigh, but it sounds more relenting than anything. Score. _Fine. I’ll see what I can do. Swing by in 40 minutes, okay? But don’t come in or honk or anything. I’ll wait for you by the window._

 _Ooh, how_ **_romantic,_ ** _Eddie my love!_

 _Richie..._ His chuckle comes out as barely even a huff through the receiver, but it’s still music to Richie’s ears.

_40 minutes. Okie-dokie, Artichoke-y._

_You’re so weird._

Richie _did_ swing by and he _didn’t_ come in or honk because he’s a Good Fucking Friend. His status as a Good Fucking Son however is still in question considering that he forced his mom to idle in the middle of the road for 8 minutes with the heat blasting until Eddie came barreling out the door in fucking _snow pants_ and the _Meatball Coat_ like they’re in elementary school or some shit. But whatever, he looked cute as all hell (still does, even though he looks like a cute-as-all-hell fucking _gremlin_ trying to throw snowballs at mailboxes with Bev and Stan) covered head to toe in thermal, so it was totally worth it to get reamed into by his mom for making her waste all that gas _and_ force her to drive through what the weather dudes are calling The Storm of the Century. Seems like there’s one of those every four years, but, again, whatever. Eddie looks like a huge fucking dork, and just about the cutest damn thing Richie’s ever seen in his life. He’d bet ten bucks Eddie’s wearing _long johns._

He’s such a nerd. Richie tells him as much, cooing at him and pinching his cheeks. “My little meatball,” he calls him.

“Who you callin’ little, motormouth!” Eddie shoots back, which only makes Richie's grin widen.

Richie's sometimes shocked that he isn't broadcasting his wild, unfettered affection for Eddie in bright neon for even astronauts to pick up on. Or, maybe they do, and Eddie is just even more blind than _he_ is. Shit, Richie loves him so fucking much.

Which is why Eddie’s eyes are making things so difficult today.

A new eye color isn’t all too abnormal for Eddie; with the changing of the seasons and Richie paying way more attention to him than he ever has before, he’s prone to catch the changes. They’re usually subtle: dark grey in the fluorescent lights of the school; a lighter greyish-green in the summer at the quarry; some brown specks when they climb trees in the fall. But something’s different today, and it isn’t just the color.

Eddie’s eyes, now a dark, molten brown, are striking against the stark white backdrop of Derry. Richie might not had even noticed if Eddie wasn’t looking over at him compulsively every 30 seconds. Richie’s starting to get a little self-conscious; he has to shave now _(thanks,_ puberty), little hairs sprouting up on his upper lip that Stanley called his _rat-stache_ until he forced his dad to teach him how to use the electric razor after the debacle nicking himself bloody trying to finagle Lucy’s pink, disposable one she keeps in the shower for her legs. He doesn’t remember if he shaved this morning, but it’s been days since the last time he did, and the hairs are starting to come in faster and darker the more he does it. He hopes one day he'll be able to grow a beard, but today is certainly not that day. He ducks his head and touches his upper lip only to find it smooth; score one for Richie’s hyperactive forgetfulness. Take that, puberty!

Even with that mystery solved, it doesn’t explain why Eddie won’t stop looking at him. He’s been using Bill’s boogie board (well, Georgie’s, but none of them said a word about that, even though Richie knows they all noticed the _G.D._ penned in sharpie along the side) because he doesn’t have a sled himself and Stanley told him if he went down flat on his ass, he was gonna get wrecked. He may or may not have tried once, just as a control for the experiment, and cut his cheek on the sharp ice and ripped a hole through his sweater for his efforts. Worth it though, even if just to see Stanley’s face turn a new shade of purple and to have Eddie play nurse and use mitten-warmed fingers to carefully attach a bright pink bandaid (Richie’s choice) to the gash on his cheekbone.

Maybe it’s that; the moment _had_ been weirdly charged with something mostly-foreign. Eddie’s needed to be Richie’s pocket-doctor loads of times before though, so it doesn't exactly explain the heat in Eddie’s eyes, or the unnecessary closeness as he patched Richie up. All those war movies Bill made them watch in ‘88 when he was attempting to pass as a Serious Film Critic _(Big Bill, you were 12 years old, get a grip)_ must've really paid off in the romance department. Richie guesses he's a stud now. It was only ever a matter of time.

Whatever it is, Eddie’s looking at him _a lot_ and Richie doesn’t really know what to do about it. If he teases him about it, Eddie might stop, like, permanently, which would be a tragedy on par with the war draft and the US prison system, but if he does something as simple as just acknowledge it, that might lead to a conversation Richie’s not really ready to have. Because sure, he fucking loves Eddie; like, for real loves him. And he knows that’s dumb as shit to say at sixteen—every 16 year old thinks they’re in love with their first crush—but Richie’s had a long-ass time to sit with these feelings and try to shove them in boxes and drawers and closets, build safe houses for them so they have plenty room to run around and scream themselves ragged, but they’re too _big,_ too powerful to be contained or ignored like he wants to, or thinks he should. Richie just wants to grab Eddie’s cheeks and scream, _I fucking love you, you idiot!_ right in his face. Sometimes he has to physically stop himself from doing so.

Okay, so he never said he was a romantic. He _did_ fall asleep during most of the Great Movie Marathon of 1988. But the point still stands: Richie loves Eddie. Not puppy love, either; the real-ass thing.

But that sure as shit doesn’t mean he’s at _all_ ready to say it out loud to _anyone,_ least of all Eddie himself. There's a difference between being passively gay and actively gay. He knows he's much more palatable if he stands on the sidelines while his feelings run screaming through the safe houses and football fields of his head.

Richie’s making a snow angel a few yards away from the Snowman-Building-And-Mailbox-Destroying Crew when Eddie sits down beside him. Richie doesn’t look up from the bleak, grey sky still lightly blanketing the earth with snow, but he knows it’s Eddie anyway. He could recognize Eddie anywhere—mute, deaf and blind. It’s a fact about his world now. Nothing he needs to overthink. Just truth. A totally useless superpower.

They’re quiet for a little while, and Richie can hear the snow crunch as Eddie works to make an angel alongside of him. Eventually, Richie stands up to observe his work, and looks to Eddie’s as well. It’s nice; definitely smaller than Richie’s, but that’s not Eddie’s fault since Richie’s had an insane growth spurt recently, arms and legs growing way quicker than his spine can catch up with. He’s got growing pains all the time, a dull, constant ache in his bones, and even a few stretch marks on his spine. Not exactly Miss America. There’s no way to get rid of it—not even with Advil which he's been popping like breath mints just to stay alive—but he thinks that life’s just like that; everyone feels a low static of pain constantly, even if it’s just emotionally. And Richie’s sure as hell got that, too. In _spades._

He reaches his hand out to pull Eddie up, and nearly topples over when Eddie comes up easier than he thought he would, flying a few inches off the ground. “Woah! Flyin’ like the literal angel you are!” He taps Eddie’s tummy with his palm, and Eddie squirms a bit, chuckling lowly. “Damn, kid, gotta get some meat on them bones.”

“I’m fine, you’re the one who’s… who’s…”

“Freakishly strong? Why thank you, Eds.” Richie bows dramatically and flexes his skin-and-bones biceps. Eddie slaps him upside the head, upending his wool beanie knitted for him by Beverly.

“Hey! Watch the merchandise, this was a _gift,_ you swine!” He dusts the snow off the hat with a flourish and shoves it back on his head. “Better?”

“Entirely lopsided, actually,” Eddie laughs quietly, reaching up to adjust it. His knuckles brush the side of Richie’s face, scratchy with the gloves he’s wearing. It shouldn’t be intimate, especially since he can’t feel Eddie’s skin like he could before when he removed his mittens to bandage Richie up, but any time Eddie touches him without a staunch set to his mouth feels like the kind of deeper intimacy he’s only ever witnessed when his mom gently wakes his dad up after falling asleep covered in site plans on the living room couch and slowly escorts him to their bedroom.

“There,” Eddie says, smiling, “much better.” He turns to appraise their snow angels, humming softly, but now Richie’s the one who can’t look away. There’s something about how Eddie’s skin never really seems to lose its summer tan, something sweet about how his hair falls in curls over his eyes, matted down from the thick hat he’s wearing being fastened tightly around his head (definitely Sonia’s doing).

Without even glancing over, Eddie asks, “You gonna actually look at the angels or you gonna just stare at me like a weirdo all day?”

Smooth, but two can play at that game. “But Eds,” Richie says, only a little breathless, “I'm _already_  looking at an angel.”

“Shuddup,” Eddie blushes, shoving Richie sideways.

“Hey!” Richie yells, stumbling back over to wrap an arm around Eddie’s shoulder, but looking down at the snow once more. “I only speak the truth.”

“Sure…” Eddie chuckles, shaking his head, but it’s the kind of win Richie never thought he’s achieve when Eddie wraps his arm around Richie’s waist in return. And then after a few moments, Eddie turns and buries his face between the lapels of Richie’s windbreaker and presses his nose into the wool of his sweater, which is a whole _different_ kind of win, and  _definitely_ more unlikely than the last. He has both arms wrapped around Richie now, and there’s really no reason for it—none at all that Richie can see, at least. Eddie’s just _hugging_ him—for real hugging the way he hasn’t done since right after the clown. And before that? Richie’s hard-pressed to remember there _ever_ being a time before that where Eddie willingly held Richie like this. At least, not since they were really, really little.

And because he doesn’t want to squander his chance to do it if this is the last time it’s gonna happen, he hugs Eddie back. Slowly at first, tentatively resting his arms over top of Eddie’s shoulders, but then Eddie melts even further into the embrace once he feels Richie hugging him back, so Richie decides, fuck it, go full tilt.

He rests his cheek on the top of Eddie’s head and draws light patterns where his sweater peeks out from underneath the snow suit. He writes letters— _T-E-N-D-E-R—_ and draws pictures (a tree, big wings on Eddie’s shoulder blades, a dog, a pony-friend for the dog who he's decided is named Stuart) and allows the moment to just _be._

With Eddie, he knows he’s always pressing his luck with touch in general. Eddie’s prone to shoving shoulders and slapping arms, but this kind of stuff? The kind of stuff you do with real close friends, or maybe even—god forbid—lovers? Eddie shies away from it, at least with Richie. Richie can hold him and rock him and press kisses into his hairline during a panic attack, but Eddie never does any of it back, only accepts it when he's low enough that he really needs it. Beverly and, to a lesser extent, Bill, are the only people Richie’s ever noticed Eddie choose to touch. It’s always stung a little, like maybe Eddie really does think he’s as dirty and gross as he’s always lauding.

But this moment kind of inarguably proves otherwise, and it’s _nice._ Real fuckin’ sweet, if you ask Richie. Usually, Richie’s got one foot planted firmly in reality, the other trapped in his head, but he works very hard to take this moment for what it is and really, actually experience it. And he’s not a hippie, okay? ‘Living in the moment’ or whatever crap those flower-power, LSD-wracked weirdos down in Woodstock were spouting in the 60s is total bullshit, and he’s the first person to admit that. But maybe there’s a very, _very_ small nugget of truth to the bare bones of the idea.

Richie’s always thinking about _something._ Always worrying. He spends at least an hour before bed plotting out exactly how the next day has to go; he worries about jokes before he says them, workshopping Voices and testing out new ideas, always trying to get people laughing because maybe if they’re laughing, they’re won’t notice anything’s wrong.

And things feel very fucking wrong all the damn time. But that sounds crazy, and he’s _not_ crazy. He’s not gonna end up like Henry Bowers, locked up in Juniper Hill for life. No, he is better than crazy. He has been fighting whatever ugly thoughts pop up in his head unbidden about dresses and boys and dresses-on-boys for years now, and he’s gonna keep doing it until the day he dies, hopefully by 23 or so. After that, he knows it’s all downhill if he hasn’t made it big yet. He’d much rather go out in a blaze of glory than fade into obscurity until he’s so irrelevant to people, he may as well be dead. He's heard about the 27 Club, and he thinks if the devil approached him for a deal, he wouldn't blink twice before accepting. He doesn't need a soul; he's barely certain he even has one to begin with.

But he’s _not_ dead; at least not yet. Right now, he barely even wants to be. Right now, he’s perfectly content to be alive, held by Eddie in the middle of the street. He breathes in deep and takes that for the win that it is. Possibly the most exciting win thus far today.

“Hey,” Eddie says, low-pitched and slow like molasses, like the just-visible flakes still falling from the sky, “you smell nice.”

“I—” Richie cuts himself off, because his voice was already cracking straight down the middle like some prepubescent dweeb, and he needs to fucking _collect_ himself before he responds to something like that. He does eventually, but it’s still not exactly what he wanted to say. “It’s all the pheromones I’m putting out; your mom was lookin’ real fine through the frosty window when I picked you up this morning, yessiree. You know how that woman really turns a feller on.”

“Shut up,” Eddie chuckles, his mood somehow not souring from the overused (and frankly, rushed) joke. He doesn’t even call Richie out on it like he usually does—he must be tired from walking back up the hill so many times. “Are you wearing cologne?”

“What? No,” Richie snorts, tugging on the straps of Eddie’s dungaree snowsuit, just to have something to do with his hands that’s a modicum less intimate than sketching designs into his back like before. “Why would I wear cologne to go sledding? I’m not _that_ much of a stud.”

“Dunno,” Eddie shrugs, tipping his cheek in the curve of Richie’s shoulder where it meets his neck. So, so close. “What type’a dryer sheets yer mom use?”

And _maybe_ Richie could’ve responded (although with what, he has no idea, considering he doesn’t know what the fuck _dryer sheets_ his mom uses, what a weird fucking question, Eddie) but then he lightly drags his ice-cold nose along the column of Richie’s throat, unabashed with tenderhearted affection despite all their friends only being a few yards away, the eyes of the windows in Derry all around them, and anything Richie might’ve said gets caught around his vocal cords and ties around them tightly, choking him stiff.

God, he should be so fucking embarrassed right now. They _both_ should. Not only are their friends nearby, but they’re in plain view of Greta Bowie’s house; she could fucking ruin them if she catches wind of this, their closeness. Greta doesn’t fuck with them too much anymore, sort of grew out of that mean-girl phase she was going through at age 14, but she still runs with the West Broadway Gang and those bitches are _nasty._ And not in the fun way. They spread rumors like it’s a full-time job just to watch people suffer. They don’t get physical with Beverly anymore, but their new, preferred type of violence is so much more insidious. Richie’s hands begin shaking as his eyes dart around to make sure nobody is watching at them, closely monitoring all windows in sight; no one is.

And yet, despite the paranoia, Richie still doesn’t untangle their bodies. It’s nice, okay? With both of them out of the closet, at least to each other and a few of the people they’re hanging out with, it’s _nice_ to pretend they can be affectionate with whomever they choose without getting, uh, strung up by tow trucks or something. Mike told him he read about that in the restricted section of the library when he was doing some investigative journalism about the worldwide lack of discrimination laws. The Derry News didn’t print the article, of course, but Richie read it and (though he loathes to admit it) ended up crying by the end.

Black folks are still auctioned off as slaves in Libya; gays are strung up by their necks and left to die in Chechnya; Jews are still being slaughtered daily all over the world despite Hitler’s reign of terror being put to an end decades ago; women are probably going to be casually viewed as male property until the day he dies; the prison system's a joke with terrible living conditions and prisoners are bring into slave labor; the war draft is like a government-run game of Russian roulette. He could try to do something about it, and he sure as fuck _wants_ to, wants to scream until he’s hoarse, knock on doors and hand out pamphlets about protesting the Cold War like a bible thumper with an actually righteous cause. He could, but he’s only 16, and it’s not like the assholes in their provincial town would listen to him anyway.

He’d much rather stick it to the man by kissing Eddie’s forehead long and slow in the middle of the street, their skin glowing in the light of the snow, glittering like stars in broad daylight.

Eddie tilts his head back to look at him with a small smile and a challenging raise to his eyebrows, gloved fingers still locked tightly at the small of Richie’s back. “What was that for?”

Richie grins, “For being so gosh darn cute, Eds, that’s what,” bopping Eddie’s nose with his finger. “Cute, cute, cute.”

“You’re a pest,” Eddie sighs, but his tight giggles as he squirms in Richie’s hold, still refusing to let go, severely undercut the statement. “Leave me alone.”

“Never!” Richie insists, aghast, digging his fingers into Eddie’s sides as his giggles raise in pitch and volume. “Perish the thought!”

“Rich- _i_ _e,”_ Eddie cries, breathless with laughter. “Stoo- _ooop,_ you’re gonna make me — hic! — needa use my _inhaler.”_

“Empty threats, my love, and you know it! You stopped carrying that thing around _months_ ago!”

“Not — hic! — in the winter! My ma thinks I might get — hic! ha, _Richie!_ — an _attack!_ Now _quit it!”_

“Ugh, _fine,”_ Richie groans, putting his hands up by his head in a show of truce, even as Eddie retaliates by slapping him in the chest several times before trying to catch his breath.

“Fuckin’ hate you,” Eddie mumbles, hands braced on his knees, but even Richie can tell he’s full of shit. He doesn’t call Eddie out on it though, which is _certainly_ a mark in his growing maturity. Eat your heart out, Mags—Richie Tozier is much more than a stereotypical 16 year old boy! He’s a 16 year old _man._

“If you’re done k-k-killing Eddie, Rich, we could use your ffff-fr-freakish growth spurt to get the ha-hat on the snowman,” Bill calls out.

“You just dug your own grave inviting me to fuck with the snowman, Big Bill,” Richie cackles, hooking his arm loosely around Eddie’s neck and dragging them back up the hill to where the snowman resides in the middle of the road. _Fuckin’ idiots,_ Richie thinks, but he’s not complaining; it’s gonna be funny as hell when the plows find it tonight. “And I’d _never_ kill Eddie! My boy! My man! The apple pie of my eye!”

“The  _what?”_ Eddie demands, barely heard over the echoing cackles coming from up the hill (most distinctly Beverly’s—that girl sure has a strong set of pipes on her).

“You heard me!” Richie grins, pressing sloppy kisses to Eddie’s cheek. “My lovebug, my sugarplum, my honey bunches of oats.”

“I’m your _nothing,”_ Eddie snaps, getting his hand between his own face and Richie’s and pushing him back with his wool-covered fingers digging into his cheeks. “And if I _were_ to be your something—which, again, I’m _not—_ I certainly wouldn’t be your _honey bunches of oats.”_ He shivers dramatically. “You’re such a fucking weirdo.”

“Oh, sure I am, Eddie darling,” Richie sings, patting his cheek condescendingly, and if he notices that Eddie’s cheeks are unnaturally warm despite the subzero temperature, the only reason he doesn’t tease him about it is because their friends are nearby and definitely _not_ because the butterflies making a permanent home in his stomach didn’t flutter their way into his throat and threaten to swallow Eddie whole with sweetness if he even dared to try opening his mouth.

His throat bobs tightly as Eddie sighs and gives him a look that’s both _you’re such a little shit_ and _I love you a whole fucking lot_ and _please take it down a notch._ Richie shrugs and weakly mutters, “I refuse to be silenced for speaking the truth. Who do you think you are, Nixon?” Eddie snorts loudly and indelicately, getting his only doses of political humor from the funnies in the Sunday paper and Richie himself.

“You’re such an asshole for comparing me to that impeached dickmuncher.”

 _“Dickmucher!”_ Richie repeats, lighting up with delight. “Whew! Eds-day Addams gets off on a good one!”

“Eds-day?” Eddie grimaces, unimpressed as they approach their friends and he untangles himself from Richie’s hold to jog up ahead and turn around, walking backwards to look at him. “Terrible pun. Zero stars.”

“Aw, boooo,” Richie replies, sticking out his tongue. “You never let me have any fun.”

“Don’t be such a terror, dear, you’ll get the car on Saturday to get your nails done,” Eddie sighs, putting on some terrible posh Voice that Richie wouldn’t be able to resist smiling at if he were held at gunpoint, even despite the damning flush of his cheeks.

“Well, I gotta keep myself lookin’ sharp for my man, don’t I, puddin’?”

Eddie grins, stopping short as Richie continues walking until they’re right on top of each other. Eddie reaches up slowly, smile never fading in intensity as he tucks a stray lock of hair up into Richie’s hat, fingers lightly brushing the shell of his ear.

He cups the side of Richie’s face and leans up onto his toes, and for a long, breathless moment, Richie hopes. “Not your man,” Eddie whispers, and then lobs a fistful of snow at his torso that Richie hadn’t even seen him grab. Jaw dropped and cold water dripping down his neck and chest, Richie lets out a half-shocked, half-impressed noise. Eddie is grinning like a maniac, and Richie’s honestly proud of himself for not abandoning the shambles of his pride and beg for Eddie to come back and almost-kiss him again, despite the fact that he is now completely soaked through his sweater.

“You think you can distract me with your flirtatiousness, you wily little minx?” Richie demands, whispering harshly.

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Eddie smirks, shrugging one shoulder, chin raised a little bit with pride. It's a good look. Oh, who the fuck is Richie kidding—it's hands down the best thing he's ever seen. Eddie's already backing up, knowing retaliation is imminent, but Richie would promise to never terrorize him again (at least on purpose) so long as he doesn't put anymore distance between them.

But that's Juniper-material and he knows it. So he attempts to put Eddie in a category all his own, at least for the day. The category is unnamed, unmarked, but at least that way, Richie gets to let his feelings loose for a little while. They bang down the door to the safe house the moment Richie allows himself to unlock it, and they take over his face with a wild, manic sort of grin that doesn't feel crazy at all—at least, not in the way that sort of thing usually feels. It just feels  _nice_ to be able to look at Eddie the way he always wants to: proud to be associated with him, and impressed he's even real at all.

“Oh, you li’l _shit!”_ Richie screeches, attempting to run through the snow and catch up to him. Eventually, he ends up tackling him and half-destroying the snowman in the process, and they’re both put in time out, which happens to be the partially collapsed igloo in the Uris’ driveway across the street.

And even though their friends are pissed, the dazzling smile Eddie gives him when they finally make it to the igloo is absolutely worth it. His snow boots are soaked through (okay, so they’re not 'snow boots' per say, they’re Doc Martens, but Richie had _begged_ for them for Christmas, and has been wanting to show them off to Eddie since he got quote-un-quote 'sick' after Christmas Break. Sue him. How was he supposed to know they aren’t weather resistant? Thanks _a lot_ Dr. Marten,  _if that is your real name)_  and his sweater is sopping wet now from tackling Eddie into the snow, and also Eddie's initial snowball attack.

All of these distractions together are almost enough to keep him from falling into the honey-brown softness of Eddie’s eyes, a brand new color for him, but Richie knows he’s going to be lying if he gives any other answer for his favorite color that isn't this one from now on. The way his eyes are catching the weak sunlight streaming through the holes in the ceiling almost makes Richie want to lean over and not-just-almost-kiss him senseless in the quiet safety of this snowy day.

He doesn’t. But shit, it’s a close fucking call.


	6. November, 1992

_I eat and drink and spend and fuck and never get my fill_  
_And the truth is hard to swallow like a jagged little pill_  
_But now I know I'm chasing a shadow_  
_I devastate my senses but it never stops the pain_ _  
_ _The weight is on my spirit like I'm standing in the rain_

 _I can run away but I can't let go_  
_I'm addicted now like a chemical_  
_I'm lighting the fuse and then praying I don't explode_ _  
__But I know it’ll never be enough_

—It Will Never Be Enough, Vesperteen

 

The first time Richie Tozier gets high, time fucking stops.  
  
And like, not in the romantic, oh-I-love-you-so-much-let-me-smush-your-face type of way. He gets that all the time. Like, Eddie can literally just walk into homeroom in that pretty cream-colored sweater he stole from Richie last winter and he’ll get that thunderstruck, time-stopping feeling. That feeling, he is used to.  
  
This feeling, though—he doesn’t think he’s ever going to get used to this.  
  
It all starts because Beverly is curious, but doesn’t want to try it alone. She asks if he’s willing to get high with her considering he’s the only one who she feels even remotely comfortable being around in a new state. He readily agrees, cooing at her sweetness.  
  
“What an angel you are, Ms. Marsh! Of course I’ll help you toke up! We’ll make it a boy’s day—bake brownies and get baked!” He giggles, and Beverly smiles in response.  
  
“Cute. Okay. Maybe we can even do both at once.”  
  
“How’s that?” Beverly shows him how that is when she shows up to his house at 12 noon the following Saturday with a whole tray of brownies.  
  
“Aw, I thought we were gonna make ‘em together,” Richie pouts. Beverly laughs and brings the tray upstairs, calling a hello to Wentworth who’s got a shitton of papers spread out on the kitchen table. Bills, or maybe site plans. Who knows with him.  
  
“We were, but my aunt wasn’t home, and my contact gave me a recipe with it, so I thought we could do both at once.” She waves the tray under his nose, and his eyes widen.  
  
“Woah, you mean the weed is—”  
  
“Bake ‘n’ bake. Yep.”  
  
“Oh cool! What’s the recipe?”  
  
“That’s your first question? What’s the recipe?” Beverly snorts, eyeing him fondly. “Rich, you can’t cook your way out of a freeze-dried pack of ramen. You once told me you _burned water.”_  
  
“Yeah well, there’s a first time for everything!” He puffs out his chest. “I’m more determined than I am untalented.”  
  
“You know, I believe that,” Beverly grins, squinty-eyed the way Eddie will sometimes look at him. She digs the recipe out of her bag and hands it over.  
  
He looks it over, nodding along like he has any idea what the measurements mean, and pockets it. “Hey!” She yells, pouting. “That’s mine!”  
  
“I really wanna try making it on my own. Pleeeease?”  
  
Bev looks at him like he’s grown three heads, “We haven’t even tried it yet. How do you know you’ll like the feeling?”  
  
Richie shrugs, grinning as he takes a center piece. “Because I crave chaos. You ready, Levvie?”  
  
“Ugh. Yeah, hold on.” She settles onto the floor, pulling out a wad of crumbled napkins from her large cardigan pocket. She gives one to Richie, stuffing it beneath the brownie herself, and takes a corner piece. “Sit,” she orders. He follows suit and she holds up the brownie like she’s giving a toast with it, Richie doing the same.  
  
“Bon appetit,” she sighs, shaking her head, like she’s nervous by the whole thing and is trying to hide it behind a mask of annoyance. It’s okay, Richie thinks. He’s used to that response with Stanley. And besides, he’s excited enough for the both of them.  
  
“Bon appetit indeed,” Richie grins, swallowing the whole thing in two bites.  
  
It takes about 30 minutes to kick in, and in that 30 minutes, Bev has had to slap Richie’s hand away from the tray about 15 times. “But maybe that one didn’t work! Maybe it was a fluke!”  
  
“Just wait, Richard. If neither of us are high within the next,” she checks the clock on the wall, “20 minutes, we’ll eat another. I don’t wanna get sick, alright?”  
  
“Ugh, fine, _mom.”_  
  
It turns out Beverly was right, because 30 minutes later, Richie can’t even _read_ the clock, let alone understand the words Bev is saying. She’s definitely rambling about something, though Richie can’t tell if it’s anything of consequence because her voice is going through a thousand underwater filters before they hit his ears.  
  
Thoughts are coming in at breakneck speed, but the threads are spun loose, unable to be grasped and followed. He doesn’t mind, even when the thoughts are ugly, tangled things.  
  
_Why does Beverly like me?_  
  
_I’m ugly as fuck._  
  
_My hair hurts._  
  
_I’m too strange. A rock from a different planet. Moonrock Rich._  
  
_We all float down here. I’m a deadlight, too._  
  
“I feel like a rock that’s floating,” he says, unsure if he’s interrupting Bev or not.  
  
Beverly, repeatedly hitting him, says, “Bad, bad, bad, bad, bad.”  
  
“Bad rock,” he agrees.

She nods in assent. “Bad rock.”  
  
_Holidays are soon._ “Presents for holidays?”  
  
“Yeah! I got Ben a pocket dictionary.”  
  
“Good,” Richie says. He wants to say more, but that just about covers it.  
  
“What’d you get Eddie?”  
  
“Hat.”  
  
“What kind?”  
  
He thinks he points to where he has the hat on his nightstand, in plain sight so he doesn’t lose it along with everything else. He can’t feel his arms at all, but he sees his own hand fly in and out of view. _I’m lost._ Beverly is laughing.  
  
“It’s so ugly!”  
  
“It’s his favorite color!” Richie defends, frowning. It totally is. Eddie loves purple, he told Richie himself. Not ugly. Fuck Bev.  
  
“He’s too small as it is, the huge pom-pom on the top will throw off whatever center of equality he does have. Equestrian? Equal-libri-yum?”  
  
“Yeah, that,” Richie says, laughing. “You’re dumb.”  
  
“Smarter than you!” She pitches her voice down. _“Hi, I’m Eddie Kaspbrak, and I’m going to die a virgin just like my best friend Richie Tozier. He’s gonna kill me by giving me this hat because I’m so in love with him, I’ll wear it for the rest of time and ruin any shot I have at getting laid by anyone but him—not like he’ll ever fuck me, because he’s a coward. Thanks, Richard, you killed me.”_  
  
“Aw, but Eds, I already _have_ killed you!” Richie says after he takes anywhere between 2 and 25 minutes to calm down enough to speak without laughing. “The little death!”  
  
This time, when Bev does her Eddie Voice, it’s even higher than her own regular speaking voice, and yet both manage to sound exactly like Eddie. Richie is insurmountably jealous. He wonders if it’d be inappropriate for him to ask her to say ‘You’re so hot, Richie’ in the Voice. Probably. He gets distracted from his thoughts when he remembers Bev is still speaking. _“Richie. Did you not hear me? Are your ears okay? I’m a **virgin**. That was verbal nonsense.” _  
  
_“You’re_ verbal nonsense!” Richie shoots back brightly.  
  
“Beeeeep beeeeep, Richiiiiiie.” He’s unsure if she’s doing a ghost now, or still on Eddie.  
  
Either way, he screams, “Liar! Eddie would never beep me for that! He loves me!”  
  
“Nope!” Bev smiles, or frowns, or squints, or does all three. Richie’s vision is blurry now. He doesn’t know where his glasses are. Probably dead somewhere. “I know Eddie the most. Your brain is too mushy to remember him, obviously. Your brain is lying to you.”  
  
Richie goes quiet for a long, long time. Grasping at thought.  
  
_I’m a liar._ _I’m lying to everyone._  
  
_Not telling Eddie I love him is a lie._  
  
_I can’t stop lying to myself. Who is myself?_  
  
_I don’t remember what a lie is anymore._  
  
“My brain is lying to me,” he repeats, just to make sure it’s true. Only when Beverly nods in assent can he believe it for himself. She’s right. Levvie knows best.  
  
“I trust you,” Richie says.  
  
“Awwww,” Beverly giggles, head lolling onto Richie’s shoulder. He can barely feel it. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt something. Time feels kind of imaginary. “Richie Tozier! Richard T. Tozier. Wait, what’s your middle name?”  
  
Richie thinks, and thinks, and thinks. “I don’t remember,” he says, which makes Bev laugh again.  
  
_I don’t remember much about 1989._ _I don’t want to._

_I’m thirsty._

_I miss Eddie. He’s so hot. He’d look good naked. If he got high or drunk, I bet he’d kiss me. He might even fuck me. He’d be better at it than Jenny. I might be able to look at him if we did it. I couldn’t look at Jenny._

_I’m scared._  
  
“Bev, are you scared?”  
  
“No, silly, I have you! Big strong protector man!” She picks his arm up and tries to make him flex. It’s mostly just a lot of fumbling, and Beverly picking his arm only to accidentally drop it over and over again. He doesn’t know how long it takes before he stops being a ragdoll and she dismissively sniffs, “Well, you get it.”  
  
“I’m not a hero,” he says, because it’s true. “Bill is the hero.”  
  
“That’s truuuue. Bill is our hero!” She gasps sharply, sitting up and going wobbly. He isn’t just if it’s his vision, Bev, the world, or all three that starts to shake. Eventually, it evens out again, and Beverly is halfway through belting out half-formed lyrics to “Holding Out For a Hero”. Richie laughs, but he doesn’t sound like himself. It isn’t him laughing, it’s someone else. Richie knows all the words to this song, but whoever he is now does not. Richie has listened to it loads of times because it’s a favorite of Ben and Eddie’s, but he can’t remember the words until they tumble out of Bev’s mouth a knotted, jumbled mess. Ben and Eddie and Bev are real. Richie is real. _He_ is not.

 _I miss someone I never was._  
  
“Bev,” he says after god knows how long, “do you still think about the clown?”  
  
“Sure,” she snorts, but it sounds like an accident, like she didn’t mean to laugh. Her brow furrows and she pinches her lips shut with her fingers, pulling and prodding at them to get them to work right. “Yeah,” she repeats, not laughing this time. “A lot.”  
  
“Me, too,” he whispers, staring up at the ceiling unblinking, afraid the clown will wake up just to mock him for this, for thinking, for existing. _You can’t even kill—_ “I don’t wanna die, Bev.”  
  
“You’re not gonna die,” Bev says, exasperated and smiling. “You’re right here! I’ll keep you safe. Be your big strong protector man!”  
  
Richie smiles, nods, “Okay.” He thinks he might like that. Richie spends so much time trying to protect everyone—and protect himself _from_ everyone—he doesn’t remember the last time he let someone help him. So he lolls his head to the side, searching for Beverly. It takes him too long to find her, but when he finally does, her eyes are on him, smiling loose and gentle. Relaxed. Richie doesn’t think he’s ever gonna feel relaxed in his life. He doesn’t know if it’s even possible anymore.  
  
“Bev, I need help.”  
  
“With what, Mr. Ditch?” She giggles at her own joke. She’s so sweet. Richie loves her so much. His very best friend.  
  
“I love you,” he says instead, trying to smile, but his muscles aren’t working too well.  
  
“Aw, Ditchie!” She straddles him and presses kisses all over his face, leaving his mouth untouched. He doesn’t remember the last time he had intimacy like this that wasn’t sexual or familial. He didn’t think platonic intimacy was even possible. All his platonic relationships aside from Beverly’s are so muddled with attraction and anger and resentment. He’s been so tired for so long, and he didn’t know how badly he needed this until Beverly pulls away with her lips damp with Richie’s tears.  
  
She touches her mouth gently, confused, and then touches Richie’s cheeks. “Don’t be sad, Ditchie,” she says, slow and steady. “I love you, too.”  
  
“Bev, I’m-I’m…” He tries reaching for her, but his arms seem disconnected from his body. He stares at them, follows his hands on Bev's thighs up to his shoulders, sees that they’re still connected to his chest, and looks up at Beverly again. “I need help.”  
  
“You said that before, but I don’t know how I can help you!” Bev smiles, chipper. She grabs not-his hands and moves them around to the beat of the song in her head, bouncing slightly on not-his stomach. She seems like she feels so good. Richie wishes he felt that good.  
  
“I think my brownie had too much shit in it.”  
  
“That’s impossible,” she scoffs, crossing her arms and sitting back on his thighs. “I was very careful to distri-liver it evenly, Ditchard.”  
  
“I think it happened anyway. I’m… None of this is _real_ , Bevs. We’re not real. The clown stole our reality.”  
  
“No it didn’t. It gave us each other! Sure we‘re real, silly,” she grins, tickling his ribs. He laughs, cringing, an impulse of a body that’s forgotten itself. “See! Look, there we are! Ooh, I have an idea!”  
  
She gets up off his legs (a little less gracefully than she usually is, but Richie is too far gone to comment) and searches around for something. “A-ha! Here.” She lays down beside him and he tucks his face in her shoulder, letting her short curls tickle his nose. He smiles, snorts, closes his eyes. He lets time stop for a little while. He’s too exhausted to keep fighting the melting of the clock.  
  
“Dickard, wake uuuup,” she sings, poking at his ribs. He doesn’t think he fell asleep, but Beverly knows time better than he does right now. “Lookie here!” She prods at his chin to unearth him from where he got lost in the tangles of her hair and looks up to see her holding a polaroid above their heads. He grabs around on the floor until he finds his glasses and shoves them on to see a picture of the two of them, on this floor, in these clothes, smiling loose and gentle. Relaxed. Them—not anybody else. He looks relaxed hidden in the crook of Beverly’s shoulder. He adjusts to rest his head on her chest and flops an arm across her stomach and a leg across her own.  
  
“I love you,” he repeats, smiling where he presses his nose to her shirt and breathes deep. She smells like wi'll lavender and fresh snow and dusty sunlight and dead leaves. She’s otherworldly, Beverly Marsh is. She could defeat anything she wanted with one hand tied behind her back. She’s so strong—his big strong protector man. She feels like home on his skin. Another limb. A part of him he’ll never be able to cut out. A part of him that has no need to be cut out.  
  
“Love you, too, ya nerd,” she chuckles, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before replacing her lips with her fingers, scratching at his scalp gently. He sighs happily, finally relaxed, and time starts back up again.  
  
“I don’t need help anymore,” he says. “I’m good. I think it’s wearing off.”  
  
“Good,” she says, “because it’s been like five hours, and mine is too,” but neither of them move. She continues petting his hair and he keeps his grip on her plaid shirt tight and secure. He doesn’t think it’s actually hers, but it smells like Beverly—woodsmoke, lavender and cigarettes. He breathes her in, even, in and out. He feels a little more real with her skin on his own. They don’t move for a long time, but it feels like a long time now.  
  
There’s a short knock on the door, a “Hey kids?” before his dad pokes his head in. “Oh! Uh.” He speaks too brightly, a little bit shocked. Beverly squirms, but Richie doesn’t move, feeling heavy. “Oh,” his dad repeats with more understanding than before when he sees that nothing scandalous is going on. “I was just wondering if you guys wanted to come downstairs and look at the Chinese menu. Your mom had a long day at work and is too tired to cook, so we’re just gonna get take out.”  
  
“That’s okay, Mr. Tozier, I was about to head out anyway,” Bev says, stiff as she untangles herself from Richie.  
  
“You were?” Richie frowns, sitting up and looking at her with confusion as she packs up her things, and picks the tray back up.  
  
“Yeah, it’s getting real late, and my aunt wanted to have dinner,” she says, but it seems like a lie. Didn’t Beverly say her aunt works late tonight? With his still-slightly-high brain not in full working order, he can’t parse out why Bev would be acting strangely.  
  
“Oh, alright, Bev. Well, a few of Richie’s friends are coming over tomorrow because Maggie bought a pot roast and it’s far too big for just us three.” Went brings his voice down to a conspiratorial whisper. “Just between us three, I think she keeps forgetting Luce is off at school.”  
  
Richie startles. For a while, he’d forgotten, too. He isn’t sure if his dad is referencing the same form of forgetting, though, so he says nothing as Went continues at his regular tone. “Will you join us then? We could sure use the extra hands. That thing is _big,”_ Went smiles, hopeful and inviting. Richie is very, very grateful to have good parents—he knows well enough that Bev and Eddie aren’t so lucky. He puts a sticky note on the front of his brain to tell them so at dinner.  
  
“Oh,” Bev says, blinking in surprise, like she thought she was merely in the way before, but now she sees that she’s actively being sought out and invited. She smiles back at Wentworth. “Y-Yeah, I’d love that, Mr. T. Thanks a ton. Who’s gonna be here?”  
  
“Um, Rich? You said about four of your friends? Eddie’s coming, right?”  
  
“Mm-hm. Ben can’t make it because he has to go with his cousin somewhere this weekend for his birthday, but other than that, it’s gonna be just the regular gaggle of gals. I was gonna invite you this afternoon but… I forgot.” He grins at her, and she nods knowingly.  
  
“You and your hyperactive little brain,” she smiles, reaching down to grip the top of his head and shake it. “Always thinking about anything other than what you need to be thinkin’ about.”  
  
He shrugs, “It’s a gift.”  
  
“Sure is,” she nods, solemn, but not at all sarcastic, like she agrees with him. She turns to Went and salutes, the tray of brownie under one arm. “Well, I gotta get back to my aunt. She’ll be wondering where I scampered off to if I’m out too late.”  
  
“Of course, Beverly. Rich’ll walk you out,” Went says, already heading down the hallway. “Oh, and leave a brownie on the counter for your mother, Richie! She needs a nice treat after her long day.”  
  
Beverly turns to Richie wide-eyed and half-laughing, and Richie, snorting through his giggles, scrambles for an excuse. “We made them for, uh, The Denbroughs! Bev was gonna walk them over! Sorry, pops!”  
  
“Ah well. I’ll pick up some mix at the store tomorrow and make them as a surprise for her.”  
  
“Surprise? What surprise!” Richie hears his mom call out from their room at the end of the hall.  
  
“Nothing, Margaret, keep napping! Chinese will be here in 40!”  
  
“No! What’s my surprise!” She demands, tripping out the door of their bedroom in her nightgown and slippers, running down the stairs calling, “I want it now! Gimme gimme!”  
  
Beverly turns and grins at Richie, “Well, you guys are definitely related.”  
  
He laughs, big and proud, and nods, “I got it from my mama.”  
  
“Alright, Tozier, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Richie walks her down the stairs, only slightly wobbly now, much to his own pride, and in the threshold of the front door, she turns and puts a hand on his arm. “Hey, you good? The stuff seemed to hit you really hard, a lot harder than it did me from what I could tell.”  
  
“Yeah it did,” he says, but he grins. “It was great.”  
  
“Yeah?” She raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Totally. Really great. Thanks for makin’ ‘em. Can’t wait to do it again—it was so intense.”  
  
She nods. “It seemed it. Maybe you _did_ get a stronger one than I did.”  
  
“Dicky T is always right,” he hums. He kisses her cheek and pushes her out the door, waving goodbye dramatically like the women in the war movies. “Be safe out there, Jimmy! Come home to me!” She waves back, shaking her head and laughing.  
  
By the time dinner has come, the high has worn off completely, but instead of tending to the sticky note on his brain, a new one has completely overrode it: _when’s the next time I can get high? How can I convince Bev to do it with me? How can I get some on my own if she won’t?_

He’s so preoccupied with the new pile of notes that he forgets to ask his mom how work was like he usually does, forgets that Lucy’s existence completely slipped his mind, nearly forgets how it felt for Eddie to be straddled on his lap. That last one is especially odd considering Richie has not forgotten for one goddamn second since it happened. He has seriously not had peace, getting half-hard almost as soon as he remembers. Now that he thinks about it, Beverly had done almost the same thing while they were high, and he didn’t get swarmed with that flood of memories then.

He smiles to himself, self-satisfied as he eats nearly a whole quart of lo mein. His parents scold him for it, but he doesn’t really care. Intoxication certainly has its perks if one of them is forgetting who he is. He’s been searching for something to escape himself with for so long, and he’s fucking _ecstatic_ that he’s finally found it. He’s just having fun. He’s just loosening up. He’s just coping with being alive. There’s no harm in it, he tells himself. There’s no harm in it.

_There’s no harm in it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t get high without someone sober there to help you out, kids! especially the first few times! i don’t condone with bevrich did, they’re stupid, don’t listen to them. love u be safe


	7. December, 1992

_All I can offer are farmer chords_  
_These simple rhymes that you painted in words_  
_You can sing this when alone_  
_Or whistle it through your teeth_  
_And it will feel like home_  
_No matter how far you’ll be_  
_From my lonely arms outstretched_  
_Just beyond your reach_  
_Singing, “ooh, baby, please...”_  
  
_I can’t begin to compete with you_  
_And everyone knows, I know you know it, too_  
_It’s a complicated fear_   _t_ _hat grows with every year_  
_And it’s walking on its own, finally_

—Farmer Chords, Ben Gibbard

 

The Losers’ safe haven for the year of 1993 comes in the form of Will Hanlon’s abandoned barn.

The barn hasn’t always been abandoned; for years, it took up residence of the Hanlon family cow, Melvin. As a meat distribution farm, the Hanlons have seen their fair share of animals come and go, but Melvin was always special—he wasn’t just the first cow the Hanlons acquired, but he was also Will’s best friend.

And like, okay, Richie totally made jokes about that when he heard that, too. Exclusively to Eddie of course, never to Mike—Richie is a jokester, but he isn’t _mean._ At least, he doesn’t _try_ to be mean. Of course, Eddie snapped at him and told him that cows choose best friends just like humans do, and Eddie wishes he had chosen a better one. It was a good—albeit slightly mean—joke, and it had Richie cracking up for days after. He called Eddie ‘Heffer’ for the entire month of April until he threatened serious bodily harm. He has prime joke real estate with ‘Hefferly’ anyway.

At the ripe old age of a whopping 24 years old, Melvin passed away in August, surrounded by his family and friends (Richie still cannot believe cows have friends. Like, what the fuck). They had a whole ass funeral for him (yeah. A cow funeral. Farmers are wild, man) and he has an actual honest to god headstone behind his barn that has since been rendered defunct in memoriam.

After an appropriate length of time for cow-grief (Richie supposed that’d be about six days in people-years), he brought up transforming the barn into the Losers’ new hangout space to Bill. He talks to Bill about it first because, during the winter months, their Designated Fuck-Around Space is Bill’s garage, which has been a point of contentment with Bill’s pops. The man has always been a little sour, a little too stern, but Bill reminds him that Richie met him after losing his son. Richie doesn’t suppose there is an appropriate length of time for that kind of grief.

Bill is (incredibly surprisingly) very down to make the move somewhere else. Bill usually likes to have as much control over every situation the Losers are in as possible because it helps remind him that he isn’t completely choiceless in this cruel and ugly world (or whatever, Richie’s no shrink, but he figures that’s gotta be it). Richie figures his desire to keep the peace must trump that. Bill brings it up to Mike when they’re all hanging out in the garage (much more delicately that Richie would’ve, god bless his tact), and Mike agrees with the promise that they don’t hurt the building.

Richie tells him that they’re not monsters—of course they’ll keep the dumb cow-house safe. Mike isn’t so sure, which, like, rude, but probably fair considering Richie has single-handedly busted three whole couches. Bill kept thinking he’d learn not to jump on them after the first time.

Bill’s an idiot.

It’s been about three months of decorating and lighting as best they can with the two outlets in the entire 16x24 two-story barn. Seriously, Melvin lived like a fucking king—Eddie’s entire fucking _house_ is smaller than this.

Stan finds an old, rolled up carpet in his basement, and Mike drives it over. Ben’s aunt replaces their couch, and he asks if she’d be willing to donate the old one to their cause. Richie begins collecting posters and knick-knacks, things to make the space pop. Bev and Bill painted a cow-mural on one wall, and the view of the Kenduskeag from the cliffs at the Barrens on the other. Eddie constructed a more stable ladder to be able to use the loft. Due to slowed farm duties in the winter, Mike had time to build a crude excuse for a coffee table. Will even donates a creaky old La-Z-Boy from the mid-80s to their cause.

It’s cold as balls with one shitty space heater plugged into one of the outlets to warm the entire building, but it’s still a nicer hangout than most of their houses put together. Richie’s mom is a goddamn lawyer and this place is more the tits than his own modern two-story. Maybe because the only people who have ever been inside it are the seven of them, Mike’s pops, and an ancient, dead cow.

So that’s why they all decide to spend New Year’s Eve in the clubhouse. Or, _Chez Vrai,_ if you’re Richie. Bev asked him if he even knew what that meant. He responded, _sure, but it doesn’t really translate well to English, and either way, it sure as hell sounds nicer than whatever cheesy bullshit Bill came up with._

He thinks it was a nice save because it meant he didn’t have to tell her that it means _house of truth._

It isn’t helping that Eddie has taken to calling it _Chez Vrai_ as well. He knows Eddie has no idea what it means, but just hearing the muddled French off his lips is enough to set Richie aflame.

By the end of December, the barn has officially been dubbed _Chez Vrai_ by all (due in no small part by Eddie, which does absolutely nothing to quell the fire in Richie’s chest that’s been blazing for years, only growing in size since Halloween), and it’s become a bit of a code that can be used around their folks. No one aside from Will Hanlon know the full extent of the decorations done to _Chez Vrai_ who had to make sure the place was up to code for seven rowdy visitors—all their parents simply think they’ve taken a likeness with renewed vigor to their friend Mike Hanlon.

So when Mike calls up Bill and tells him to round up the Losers for New Year’s Eve, Richie is fucking _psyched._ He’s never had a particularly good New Year’s Eve—most of his consisted of watching the ball drop with his parents’ drunk friends at their annual party and then trudging upstairs to watch The Twilight Zone until he fell asleep. This is gonna be his first real New Year’s Eve without his parents present, and he’s so excited the entire week beforehand, even through Christmas celebrations with his folks. Stan seemed like he’s one knee-jiggle away from putting a hole in Richie’s head when they hung out a few days ago.

He didn’t though, and they make it to the day of the party with no major injuries done to Richie. He’d even snatched a whole twelve pack of beer from his parents’ load of alcohol they brought home for their own party. They won’t miss one pack out of _eleven_ _._ (What anyone could need eleven fucking bottles of liquor, beer and wine for is beyond Richie, but he’s not one to judge, especially considering they didn’t even notice the shit had gone missing.)

They’ve brought a ton of blankets and pillows, planning to sleep in _Chez Vrai_ so none of them have to drive home intoxicated. They’ve got more than enough pizza to last them til at least Y2K. They’ve thought of everything.

Everything except how Eddie has never _really_ been drunk before.

The rest of them have, either at the Hottest Halloween Party Of All Time, or previously. However, Eddie only had one shot at the party on Halloween (per Richie’s lust-fueled assistance), and it was certainly not enough to get him wasted.

He’s definitely on his way there now though as he clumsily dances around near the portable stereo Ben brought from his house. Richie and Ben made several tapes for the event, and they mixed them all together upon arrival with no labels so them to ensure a free-for-all for what would play when. It’s currently pumping out “No Scrubs” at top volume—definitely Ben’s choice, but Richie isn’t complaining, especially from where he’s stationed on the couch halfway across the barn, his legs strewn haphazardly across Bev’s lap, a bottle of beer in his hand, and his eyes planted firmly on Eddie who’s wearing the purple hat Richie got for him for Christmas and wearing Richie’s huge rainbow paisley-printed scarf like a shawl. Eddie said the hat was really nice, so Beverly can fuck right off if she thinks it’s ugly. Richie happens to think Eddie looks _adorable_ in it.

Conversation continues on around him, but he isn’t listening at all. His mind swims pleasantly, sighing and smiling at Eddie despite the fact that he is paying him no mind, dancing for nobody but himself. He’s certainly not the _best_ dancer in the group—that title firmly belongs to Stan, though he denies it every chance he gets and insists he ‘doesn’t dance’ which Richie thinks is a tragic waste of a God given talent—but with the ceremonial shot of whatever-the-hell-Beverly-procured to kick off the night and four beers since then pumping around in his tiny body, Eddie really doesn’t seem to care. It’s honestly pretty fucking mesmerizing.

When Richie was younger, his sister told him that confidence is key to get people to like him. _If you act like you know what you’re doing, people will assume that you do._ He’s used this golden nugget of advice gifted to him at age 8 ever since, walking into every room and every conversation and every joke with an air of confidence he doesn’t feel, will probably never feel. But it’s okay—he figures _fake it til you make it_ is his best bet, and he’s going to ride that wave out until he crashes.

Eddie doesn’t have the same luxury of false confidence—Richie doesn’t think he could even pretend to be confident if he tried, what with all the conditioning Mrs. K put on him to submit, to cower, to hide. God, Richie hates her. He’s hated people before, sure, and just as intensely—Bev’s late-father, Henry Bowers, Patrick Hockstetter—and he’s acted on his hatred for all of them. Richie isn’t shy when it comes to those feelings. Other feelings, sure, but anger and hatred are safe and solid ground. He understands them. Maybe the reason his hatred for Sonia being so intense is because he has to stifle it now. When they were kids, he had no issue mouthing off to her; now though, he tries to keep it reigned in for no other purpose than convenience. He and Eddie are too close to the precipice of _something_ for Mrs. K to go and cock it all up by banning Richie for life because he said something honest about how bad she sucks.

With the intensity and magnitude of the feelings he has for Eddie swimming inside him now, he feels combustible as he watches him dance with a confidence that glows on his skin, doused in the yellow light of the cheap lamp nearby. When sober, he knows they’ll both be better off if he hides the gross feelings he’s got for him, but with the alcohol clouding his head, it feels damn near impossible; pointless, even.

Bill stumbles over to Eddie, grabbing his free hand to reel him in for a simple, messy foxtrot. It looks silly and uncoordinated, especially when set to TL-Fucking-C, but the conversation derails as the rest of them look on fondly from where they’re squished together on the couch. Stanley is on Richie’s other side, pressed snugly into the arm of the couch, and with his designated two-drink-maximum, he doesn’t feel the need to shy away from contact like he usually does, his head tipped lightly against Richie’s shoulder. It’s nice. It’s all nice.

And then Eddie makes eye contact with him and raises his eyebrow, a clear challenge of _something,_ and Richie’s skin catches fire once more, disbelieving that the flames had cooled for even a second.

Richie returns the gesture, but does not move. Two can play a risky game like this. Stanley waves his wrist in Richie’s face and, close to his ear, says, “Hey, look at the time! Do the thing!”

Richie steadies Stan’s arm, puts his beer down on the ground, and smiles as he announces, “Hello hello hello fellow rabblerousers, it’s DJ Dicky T coming at you live from the forever-shitty Derry, Maine to ring in the New Year with you in style. Thanks for inviting me to the fabulous parties all you sexy listeners have thrown. It’s 11:11 right now on the east coast, and everyone looks just stunning here where WKIT has set up shop at _Chez Vrai._ We’ve got Stan Uris to my left as our timekeeper for tonight and for always, and the Benjamin Bernard Hanscom over to the right in a darling little get-up. Is that Gucci you’re sporting tonight, Benny?”

“It’s actually the Gap, but thanks for noticing,” Ben snorts, smiling just a little. Richie realizes it’s the first time he’s seen him smile all night. Curious, and a little troubling, but he can’t find it within himself to worry with the Voice coating his tongue.

“And also in the La-Z-Boy donated to us by Will Hanlon of Hanlon Farms, _when you’re here, you’re family—”_

“I thought that was the Olive Garden.”

“—we have the ever-incendiary, sweet-‘n’-sour Beverly Marsh, setting the fashion world ablaze with her _gowg-juss_ homemade cocktail dress. And she can make one for you, too! Yes, a one-of-a-kind Levvie Marsh for the low, low price of your left nut!”

“Actually, I’ll take anyone’s nut, I’m not picky,” Bev grins, “but it has to be the left.”

“Wow, she’s sh-sh-sure hacked her prices. Damn the ec-economy,” Bill chuckles, elbowing her side lightly.

Bev sighs, resting her chin in her hand wistfully, “Times sure is tough.”

“And _speaking_ of the economy, standards will sure be slashed tonight in the hazy alcohol-fueled light of _Chez Vrai_ when William H.F. Denbrough steps onto the scene. At least with _those_ dance moves! Let tonight’s DJ, or the illustrious owner of _Chez Vrai_ Micky Henley, or even the mysterious Miss Marsh give you a whirl instead—we’ll be sure to tickle your pickle _just_ right.”

“Beep-beep, Richie!” Everyone calls out in unison through various state of laughter.

“Oh, beep-beep they say! You know who _never_ beeps me is this delicious hunk of chocolate to my right, Michael Theodore Hanlon.”

“Literally none of these middle names you’re giving us have any basis in reality,” Mike laughs.

“Ooh, and he’s feisty, too! Maybe tonight will finally be the night he’ll let the ol’ Tozier Train take a ride to Spank City! Damn, folks, break me off a piece of _that_ Kit-Kat bar!”

“Only in your wettest of dreams, Dicky T.”

“Oh, but Mikey, I’m sure you know that the wettest of all my dreams are always starring one delectable—”

“No.”

“—vivacious—”

“Stop.”

 _“—foxy_ little P.Y.T. named, you guessed it, Eddie Kaspbrak.”

“Goddamnit,” Eddie groans, burying his head in his hands as everyone continues to laugh at his expense.

“Yeah yeah, he moans and groans now, but between my Looney Tunes sheets, his moans and groans are all your DJ for tonight’s event can ever _hear!_ I beg him to leave me be, ya see, I tell him, _Eds, you’re a real doll, but I just don’t have the strength to fuck you for a fifth time tonight! I promise baby, when morning comes, you can take a ride on my 10 Inch Tommy all ya like!_ But folks, he’s just too desperate! He won’t give me a moment of peace!”

Eddie’s all the way across the room, but Richie can still feel the heat in his eyes—half-anger, half- _something_ —thrum through his bones. “You wish.”

“I sure as shit do, sunshine,” Richie winks, blowing him a kiss which Eddie resolutely does not catch. “Tune in after a few spins from our specially curated mix to help you ring in the new year with that special-someone—or someones, I’m not here to judge—for some more delightful tales of Eddie and I’s rabid, rambunctious sex life. If you’re lucky, maybe we can even get him to show you heathens how it’s done. Until then, please enjoy the smooth sounds of the dulcet Neil ‘The Tongue’ Young, coming to you live from _Chez Vrai.”_

In the midst of putting in a new tape, Eddie grabs Bill’s hand and pulls him over to the five by the couch. He complains, saying he didn’t get to pick a good one, but it falls on deaf ears; all the tapes look the same anyway. That was the whole point.

It’s one of Richie’s this time (thank God), and the stereo is pumping out “My My, Hey Hey (Out of the Blue)” by Neil Young. It’s a soft song, far softer than DJ Dicky T makes him feel, and Richie falls into it with a smile, tipping his head back onto the couch, tuning in to the words and ignoring the world going on around him. _It’s better to burn out than to fade away._ Richie couldn’t agree more.

He’s entirely forgotten about his game with Eddie as he falls into the harmonica, singing along quietly, but then Eddie plops down into his lap a little unceremoniously. He clearly is trying to be delicate and coy about the whole thing, but it comes out a little coltish as he sloshes a bit of beer onto Richie’s arm.

“Woah!” Richie laughs, head shooting back up and arms coming around Eddie’s waist in an attempt to stabilize him. Eddie giggles, only slightly embarrassed by his clumsiness. His cheeks are flushed; Richie assumes that’s more a symptom of his intoxication than anything else. He glances to his right to make sure Stan didn’t get hit by any offending droplets, but he’s vacated his spot since Richie last checked to sit instead around the coffee table with the other four, playing a game that Richie can’t decipher which seemingly involves rules from both gin rummy and blackjack with Bill’s playing cards.

Richie turns back to Eddie, vision going a little blurry from the alcohol but hands steady on Eddie’s hips, and says as Billy the Kid, “You okay there, pardner? Ya almost had a mighty fall there, yessiree. I reckon it must’a been juss like the one you took from heaven.”

“I’m fine,” Eddie snorts, the force of it being powerful enough to upend him a little bit so he’s now seated beside Richie; the moment their skin stops touching, Richie feels like he’s able to breathe again, and he’s glad he took a deep breath while he could, because it’s only a few seconds before Eddie’s head plops in his lap. He settles heavily, covering himself with the stolen scarf like a blanket and tucking his cold fingers between Richie’s thighs.

“‘M just gonna close m’eyes for a minute… Don’t lemme fall ‘sleep, m’kay… Can’t miss the New Year…”

Richie smiles, tucks a fallen lock of hair that Eddie is futzing with behind his ear for him, and nods, “Sure thing, Eds.”

Richie isn’t high, doesn’t even wanna be, and he isn’t _that_ drunk. This is a dream, he’s decided—it must be. This is an entirely different world. This is a clown-induced nightmare that’s going to end with 2 to 4 of them being absolutely eviscerated by, like, a werewolf with a crow’s beak or something. It would be far more wild than Eddie tucking himself against Richie like he’s worth his time, like he’s actually interested in more than a game. It’s skin on skin, smile on smile, you match this, I’ll match that. It’s incredible.

Or at least, far more intoxicating than the cheap-ass beer they’re drinking is, or the half-a-shot each they managed to squeeze out of the moonshine bottle Beverly swiped from god-knows-where.

For an indiscernible length of time, Richie allows himself to drift. He isn’t fully awake, but he certainly isn’t asleep either. When his life is currently better than any dream he could possibly conjure, sleeping seems obsolete. The music of his own tape drones on in the background, the idle chatter and laughter of his friends in the foreground, and Eddie’s soft snores blanket him in surround sound, drowning everything else out when he focuses on them.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when Bill crosses the room to slip another tape in, but Richie is more aware of his surroundings now, whatever intoxication he felt earlier wearing off to a pleasant buzz. He isn’t unhappy in the least—no, he’s _comfortable._ Content. He doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way, like there was nothing pressing itching at the base of his throat trying to force its way out, nowhere important he needs to be, nothing he needs to do. It’s foreign in a way, and that alone is enough to make him a little forlorn. A little vulnerable.

He tugs lightly at Eddie’s curls, still staring up at the ceiling. He notices some paper stars hung up there covered in silver glitter—maybe Mike or Bev got on the ladder to put them up. They’re nice. It’s all nice.

After a while, Stan flicks his shin to get his attention and smirks up at him from where he’s still seated on a throw pillow playing cards on the floor. “Hey asshole. It’s 15 minutes to midnight.”

“Okay,” Richie sighs, carding his fingers through Eddie’s hair a little more insistently. Eddie sniffs, mumbles incomprehensibly, and is already asleep once more by the time he’s finished shifting further into Richie’s lap. “Hey, kid. It’s time to greet the new year.”

Eddie grumbles, and falls silent. Richie laughs breathily, folding himself in half to croon into Eddie’s ear, no Voice, not even an Ella Fitzgerald impression to go along with his song choice, just his pretty-sub-par-but-mostly-passable natural singing voice. He figured out how to get a vibrato going over the summer, and he’s been using it to his advantage ever since, incorporating it into his Voices; the Louis Armstrong impression in particular has seen a huge marginal increase in the laughs-to-groans ratio.

And so if the song he chooses to cover the sounds of the radio (the tape he and Ben made together to ring in the New Year with) are a little too on-the-nose, then hey, at least they’re festive. It’s Eddie’s fault, anyway—he makes every love song seem a little too on-the-nose, makes Richie a little bit more honest, more vulnerable by proxy. He was a goner from the start.

He wraps his arms loosely around Eddie’s shoulders, squeezing intermittently as he sings, _“Maybe it’s much too early in the game… ah, but still I ask you just the same… what are you doing New Year’s… New Year’s Eve?”_

Eddie flips over and pushes his face against Richie’s stomach, mumbling, “Five more minutes.”

“In five more minutes, it’ll already be 1993, cutie,” Richie grins. He knows he has the capability to wake Eddie up like an asshole—could press his cold fingers to the sensitive skin of Eddie’s neck, or tickle him until he eventually relents and gets up—but he’s a little afraid any sudden moves will break the spell cast on the night. Everyone is happy, including Eddie; there’s no lingering thoughts of any malignance; no one is too drunk, or ornery—even Ben is smiling now, curled up in the La-Z-Boy and grinning as Bev attempts to teach Bill how to foxtrot for real. They’re all pleasantly happy, perfectly sated. It’s good. Richie feels good.

And he knows that one wrong move of his could send all that good shit crashing down. He’s done it before, and fuck-all knows he’ll do it again. So no sudden moves, nothing too big or grandiose or important—not tonight. Tonight, he makes no mistakes.

He skates his fingertips lightly over Eddie’s arms, his back, shifting the scarf around, traveling quickly and randomly enough to not be considered too romantic by the naked eye—or, worse, by Eddie himself. Richie doesn’t think Eddie’s opinion on the matter is going to be much of a problem though; he’s smiling where his face is pressed into Richie’s sweater, tugging on the hem and giggling quietly. _“Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight… when it’s exactly 12 o’clock at night…? What are you doing New Year’s… New Year’s Eve?”_

Eddie sighs as he struggles to sit up, only to turn to fling his arms and legs over Richie’s lap and rest his head on his shoulder once he has. Richie is holding his breath, wound tight like a banjo string when Eddie quietly says, “Why’d you stop?”

“You’re awake now,” Richie responds, voice controlled, tense, and shaking just a little.

“Mmm, that’s not _really_ why you were singing in the first place, though, was it?” Eddie slips his hand underneath Richie’s cable-knit sweater to rest it on the bare skin of his hip. His fingers aren’t too cold from where they were pressed between Richie’s thighs for the last 45 minutes, but that’s Richie’s cover if Eddie asks why he squeaks and jumps slightly. He doesn’t. Maybe Eddie’s afraid of breaking the spell, too. “C’mon. Sing to me or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Feisty, Mister Kaspbrak, you know how I like that side of you,” Richie simpers in his Humphrey Bogart Voice. He immediately feels more at ease the second it spins loose from whatever box he forces the Voices into when he’s trying to fit himself into the world like a square peg in a round hole. It’s made especially sweeter by Eddie’s little giggle and the way he presses his fingers more tightly into Richie’s side. He runs his hand over Eddie’s arm, a rouse to warm him up if anyone asks. Nobody does. Nobody even looks at them, paying too much attention to Bill and Bev spinning around the room to the Nina Simone song neither Richie nor Eddie are listening to. It’s nice.

 _“Maybe I’m crazy to suppose… I’d ever be the one you chose… Out of the thousand invitations you received…”_ Richie hasn’t even realized he began rocking Eddie to the slow beat of the song until Eddie sighs big and relaxed.

“I like your voice a lot, Rich,” Eddie says, barely a breath. “You should sing to me more.” Richie smiles, knowing there are about half a million jokes he could easily crack from that, but doesn’t respond with anything but to keep singing. He'd do just about anything Eddie asked of him; he's not as frightened by that idea as he knows he would be without two beers and _lovelovelove_ running through his system.

_“Ah, but in case I stand one little chance… here comes the jackpot question in advance… What are you doing New Year’s… New Year’s Eve?”_

Eddie smiles against Richie’s sweater, wrapping his feet around and around one another methodically like he has so much kinetic energy and nowhere to put it, and places a discrete kiss to the ball of his shoulder. Richie squirms, trying to keep the butterflies at bay, delighted. “Thanks.”

“Welcome.”

Suddenly, a body flings onto the couch where Stan once was. Their legs rest themselves on top of Eddie’s and their arm loops around Richie’s neck, heavy and happy. Eddie flinches, looks up, and relaxes back into his previous position when he sees who the legs belong to. “Hey assholes, thanks for inviting me to your cuddle sesh. I feel real loved.”

Richie, Eddie and Bev share a plethora of similar traits, though most of their similarities are borne from different things. One is that none of them are very comfortable being affectionate in public. With Eddie and Bev heads’ on Richie's shoulders, him playing with Eddie’s hair and his arm slung loosely around Bev’s waist, he knows they all fit perfectly together, even if their dynamics separately couldn’t be more dissimilar.

Eddie and Bev are different with each other than they are with anyone else. They don’t seem to feel the same sense of carefulness with each other that they display with other people, even with Richie. He doesn’t mind though, because they all give each other things they can’t get anywhere else, all the other Losers included. Bev and Richie’s relationship is different than his with Stan, or Mike, or Ben, and he certainly can’t fight with anyone the way he can with Bill. He doesn’t feel that same fire, no one gets under his skin in the same way. But more than that, he doesn’t feel safe enough to be that emotionally honest with anyone else but Bill.

Richie and Eddie fight, sure—constantly their friends might say—but no matter how fiery their arguments may get, their touches, when either of them allow them to land, are always filled with unspoken affection in a different way than Richie will never be able to express with others, things they dare not say for fear of it being wrong. Richie and Bev’s relationship is far different—she adores the platonic side of touching, even if it took a while to get that there. Richie is patient with no one but Bev, and he’s happy to oblige her now that she’s let him in because—though he'd never admit it—he loves this, too.

“Aw, Levvie, you know you’re invited to any and all future _sessions_ Eddie and I may have,” Richie pouts, trying to suppress his grin.

Beverly wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I think I’m gonna have to pass on _any and all._ God fucking knows what you two get up to in private.”

Richie beats Eddie to a response with, “Aw, Bev, we’ll always share our bed with you! Eddie and I have an open door policy, doncha know.”

Eddie shouts indignantly and pinches Richie’s hip where he’s still holding on, making Richie jump as he laughs. “You pig!”

“What!? I can’t be the _only_ one who thinks a threesome with the three of us would be hot as balls!”

 _“You are,”_ Bev and Eddie say in unison.

“Aw, my sweet little bitches,” he coos. Eddie smacks him and Beverly groans long and loud right up against his ear.

“You have this pathological to need to ruin any nice moment you can, Trashmouth.”

“It's a blessing and a curse,” he sighs, leaning on the dramatics of his Masks for no other reason than it’s _fun_ to be someone else for a little while. It’s been so long since he was able to take a coping mechanism at face value. It’s nice. It’s _liberating._

“Sure fucking is…” Eddie grumbles. Richie turns to him immediately, delighted.

“Oh, so you admit that I’m a blessing, huh Eds?”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You kinda did, Kaspbrak,” Beverly giggles.

“Fuck you both!” He shouts, trying in vain to untangle himself from their pile of limbs.

“That’s what _I_ said! Fuck us both! Please, I’m beggin’!” Richie laughs when Eddie shrieks and manages to pull himself out of their grasp, Beverly and Richie already reaching to try and pull him back down.

“Aw, c’mon, kid, I didn’t mean no harm!”

“Yeah, _kid,_ he didn’t mean no harm,” Beverly repeats, giggling as Eddie turns around to glare at them. Richie flushes at the name teased off Bev’s tongue, terrified for a wild, completely unfounded moment that she’s mocking them.

Names like “kid” and “sunshine” and “cutie” are just trying to test the waters of reality, trying to see how much the world will allow him all at once. He wants to see the good in the world that Eddie seems to be seeing right now, too. He just seems so _happy,_ even when he’s trying hard to hold on to his indignation. It's almost infectious. Richie feels a bit like his brain is swimming in the Kenduskeag, and his body is right here in _Chez Vrai_ with Eddie finally relenting when Stan and Ben get up to join them on the couch. He lifts Bev’s legs up to sit directly in Richie’s lap like he wasn’t just trying to assert his anger less than ten seconds ago.

Beverly told Ben earlier that alcohol is a depressant, and he shouldn’t feel bad for feeling bad. But it doesn't seem like it works that way for Eddie, especially when Mike and Bill come to sit on the arms of the couch and bracket their pile with the kind of safety only the two of them can give, and Eddie giggles by rite of nothing.

“Three minutes,” Stan informs him, happy in a way Richie is hard-pressed to remember him ever sounding before, lifting up his watch. It warms Richie’s fucking heart; he hadn’t even fully realized it’d been cold before. He catches Stan’s hand before it drops down to his lap and holds on, even though Stan tries to pull it away. He knows he easily could if he really wanted to—Richie isn’t _that_ strong—but he doesn’t.

It’s nice.

“No kisses,” Bev insists, pointing at each and every one of them before landing finally and firmly on Richie, glaring for long enough to make everyone else burst out laughing.

“What! Why me?”

“Because we’ve all met you, moron,” Stan snorts, flicking him lightly in the back of the head with his other hand.

“I’d _nevah_ steal an unwanted kiss from my beloved misters and mistress! I’m not a heathen, you absolute troglodytes!”

 _“You’re_ a troglodyte!” Eddie gasps, bouncing on Richie’s thighs excitedly, “No! A _frog-_ lodyte! Because you look like a frog! Frog-lo-dyte! Frog-lo-dyte!”

“Mean! I do _not_ look like a frog!” Richie cries as everyone joins in on Eddie’s chant. “How dare you use my own insult against me!”

“Aw, but you make it so easy,” Eddie grins, leaning in close and pinching Richie’s warm cheek as they all continue on without him. He doesn’t have the energy to fight his burgeoning smile, and when Eddie’s eyes soften and his head tilts with unspoken fondness, he realizes that he would fight the impulse to smother the serious for the rest of his natural life so long as it gets Eddie to look at him like that. Like he’s _something._ Like _they’re_ something.

“Everyone, quiet down! We’re gonna miss it!” Stanley lifts his watch up in the air, still holding onto Richie’s hand. “25! 24! 23!”

Everyone joins in, and by the time they make it to midnight, Eddie has laced his fingers through Richie’s where they’re laying limp on his lap. While everyone is distracted in hugs and an off-key, slightly-intoxicated rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”, Eddie brings their joined hands up to his mouth, and presses a small, warm kiss to the inside of Richie’s wrist.

“Happy New Year, Richie,” he whispers, smiling against Richie’s skin.

Richie clears his throat and says, “Thought Bev said no kisses.” Eddie just smacks the back of his hand in response, and Richie smiles at him, despite the fact that Eddie is turned away from him, possibly unable to look him in the eye with his mouth on Richie’s skin; he’s grateful for it if he’s honest. He doesn’t think he could either. “Happy New Year, Eds. It’s gonna be a good one for us, I can feel it.”

“Oh yeah?” Eddie smirks, lowering their hands and turning to face him with a raised eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

Richie honestly hadn’t intended for there to be any double entendre with his words, but Eddie has always been more perceptive than Richie is; maybe he really did mean what Eddie picked up. With the way the butterflies are turning to raptors in his stomach, it’s likely. So he smiles, small but unmistakable, squeezes Eddie’s hand—an unspoken language he hopes Eddie understands—and shrugs. “Just a hunch.”

“Hey Rich,” Stan says as everyone quiets down, raising his hand in front of his face. “Do the thing.”

Richie thinks it’s nice that he has a purpose in their group other than being a nuisance. He can’t compete with any of his friends, and he knows it. Will never be as kind as Ben, or as brave as Bill, or as cool as Bev, or as strong as Mike, or as smart as Stan, or as beautiful as Eddie. Still, it’s nice that he’s got a reason to breathe so long as they’re asking him to. It’s nice.

He grins at Stan, and pulls the Voice out from where it’s always waiting, “Hello hello my rockin’ friends. We’re about six minutes into 1993, and the sexy patrons of _Chez Vrai_ are already winding down for the night. We have Ben-ya-meen and Willy D over in the La-Z-Boy booth.” _Groan._ “And over here by the alluring Dicky T is Staniel, Miguel, Hefferly and Eddie Vedder. Make some noise for your boys.” _Groan._

Eddie untangles their fingers to hook them onto the collar of Richie’s sweater for stability as he curls up tighter into his lap, tugging at it like it’s gonna quiet him. By the mercy of God it manages to, and Richie slings his free arm around Eddie’s waist as he concludes the night quietly, reverently, with, “Well folks, I think that about does it for me. Call the station if you’d like to book me for your next party or event. For now, this is Dicky T signing off from Derry, Maine, wishing you a wonderful year filled with the best kinds of surprises life can throw at ya. For your friends at _Chez Vrai,_  it’s already looking fucking ace.”

“Hey Rich,” Stan says quietly, cutting himself off with a sniff as he burrows himself further into Richie’s side. He grabs a blanket from the floor and covers the five of them on the couch as best he can. Richie helps him out, tucking Eddie’s socked feet between his thighs and wrapping both their shoulders with the scarf where the blanket can’t reach. “Stop doing the thing.”

“Okay,” Richie chuckles, shifting to get more comfortable and adjusting Eddie so he’s seated sideways between his spread legs. Eddie shifts, stills, and sighs, satisfied as he loosely tangles his fingers up in Richie’s curls with the hand not still holding onto Richie's, already half-asleep. _It’s nice,_ Richie thinks as someone gets up to shut the lights shut off and sleep starts to overtake him. _It’s nice that we can make each other feel safe in such an awfully unsafe place._


	8. February, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys. happy new year. thank you so much for sticking with me and my words for so long. yall are cool as fuck.
> 
> i wanted to say that i appreciate every comment on this, even if i sometimes can’t respond. every sweet word from you guys is cherished beyond measure. i’m so grateful yall put up with me for this long.
> 
> much love, happy 2019, i love you.

_From the housetops to the gutters, from the ocean to the shore_ _  
_ _The warning signs have all been bright and garish_ _  
_ _Far too great in number to ignore_ _  
_ _Our love has never had a leg to stand on_ _  
_ _From the aspirins to the cross-tops to the Elavils_ _  
_ _  
_ _But I will walk_ _  
_ _Down to the end with you_ _  
_ _If you will come_ _  
__All the way down with me_

—Old College Try, The Mountain Goats

 

1992 was a big year for Richie Tozier. It was like everything kept happening all at once. License: acquired! Virginity: lost! Got high with Beverly for the first time! Went to his first bonafide house party! Got kissed by Eddie (sort-of-kind-of) at said party! It was a banner fuckin’ year at the Bender family.

Now that’s it’s come and gone though, he kinda misses the excitement. So many new things at once was sort of thrilling! So now, on the precipice of 17, he’s making a big fucking decision, because if 1992 taught him anything, it's that change is nothing to fear.

He’s gonna tell Eddie he _likes_ him.

And, ugh, he’s fully aware of how _childish_ that sounds. He _feels_ childish just thinking about it. Like, crushes? Please. Compared to sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll, a crush on a boy is elementary, dear Watson.

So he’s decided to make it interesting. He’s gonna go all out! Make a total fool of himself and probably crash and burn! Maybe lose Eddie forever! But it’s gonna be a wild ride either way. Because with the possibility of, uh, his best friend saying _what the fuck?_ and ding-dong-ditching him, he’s at least gonna make it count.

He knows it’s gonna suck, mostly because Richie is not a romantic. He has accepted this about himself. The way he proposed sex to Jenny was, quite literally, approaching her in Chem and saying, _the ‘rents ain’t home tonight, you wanna bang?_ God knows how he ever dicked her in the first place; she must've _really_ been desperate to lose her v-card. He’s not shocked she was uninterested in a round two.

But Eddie isn’t just a casual dicking like Jenny was. He’s _important._ In general, but also to Richie. He wants to make it special, but he’s also terrified of fucking it up and/or not doing a good enough job to convince Eddie he’s for real.

So he’s calling in the big guns.

“Richard, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Stanley sighs when Richie shows up on his doorstep on the 6th of February with a big, cheesy grin, the request for Stan to 80s-movie-makeover his personality, and one of those giant Kit-Kat bars in case the smile is somehow not convincing enough. “I don’t have a single romantic bone in my entire body. Also, you’re absolutely a lost cause. Not even John Hughes could save you.”

“Okay, _ouch?”_ Richie hisses, cradling the chocolate and pushing it through the flaps of his jacket to press it to his chest. Stan has been way more acerbic than normal lately—he doesn't remember the dude even so much as _smiling_ since New Year’s Eve.

Richie tries to think back to when it first became prevalent, because maybe they got in a fight that was never resolved or something and Richie just forgot. He always gets lost in the steel-trap of his memory when he does that though, so he figures eventually Stan will remind him and blow up about it, or it will eventually just dissipate. They’re friends for life, regardless of one stupid unremembered fight. “See if I share now!”

“God, you’re a pest,” Stan sighs, half-laughing as he grabs Richie by the collar and drags him inside, slamming the door shut behind them and pushing them towards the phone in the foyer. At least he's smiling! Progress! Richie's a mental health genius now. Eddie is _bound_ to fall for him. Stan grabs the Kit-Kat from Richie’s hands and puts it on the phone-table. “We gotta call in the big guns.”

“I thought you _were_ the big guns!” Richie cries, “Calling you was my big move!”

Stanley gives him a flat, who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you’re-kidding look. “If I’m the big guns, then you really are fucked. No, we’re calling in reinforcements.”

“Do these reinforcements happen to know I’m, uh,” Richie sticks up two fingers and circles them with his other hand, pumping lewdly, “a cock jockey?”

“Jesus, Rich.”

“An ass bandit? A sodomite sinner?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“A sperm gurgler, if you will?”

“God, it’s _so_ much worse with the hand gestures, put those away,” Stan hisses, slapping at Richie’s hands. “My dad’s in the fucking study you loon.”

“What? Is he not hip on the coolest gay slurs around?”

“Let’s hope not,” Stan sighs, sitting down at the table with the phone resting innocently on it. He looks up at Richie, phone in hand. “We gotta call someone.”

“Bev?” Richie suggests hopefully. Stan makes a face.

“Bev’s great, but I really don’t think she’s hot-to-trot on how to up your romance game. She’d just tell you to get up off your ass and stop dragging your balls. And she’s _right._ But she’d also have no other input. We need someone with input to give.”

Richie wilts, falling to the floor in a dramatic heap that Stan does no help in stopping. “Ugh. This is the worst. I feel like I’m playing an only-barely-lower-stakes game of Russian roulette.”

“Richie,” Stan says, barely concealing the laughter in his voice, “get up off the floor and look at me, you absolute drama queen.”

“Absolutely not. Now that I’m gay, I’ve really gotta lean into my queen-status, sire,” Richie simpers in a high-pitched, cockney Voice, tilting his nose up in the air from where he’s slumped against the wall. “No dice.”

“Oh, so you’re gonna go all-in, stereotypes and all? Whatever. Look dude, all our friends love you to absolute pieces—God knows why—”

“Mean,” Richie pouts.

“None of them are going to turn you away for this,” Stanley says, a modicum more serious than his usual half-sarcastic, half-annoyed tone. Almost gentle, like he’s purposefully trying to put away the acid for a moment because he knows that Richie really needs to hear what he’s saying. “I swear.”

Richie cuts his eyes over to Stan, narrowing them and pointing up at him. “You better not make me regret this.”

“If you do, I will take the heat myself,” Stan says, crossing his fingers over his chest. “Promise. I’m always gonna defend you, you moron.”

“You have this uncanny way of simultaneously making me all fluttery and also wanna tear out your pubes,” Richie glares, putting out his hand for the phone.

“It’s the insults, I’m sure. We all know how they turn you on.” As soon as he says it, Stan immediately wrinkles his nose in disgust and shoves the phone at Richie. “Actually, nevermind, don’t address that, I absolutely do _not_ wanna know if I’m right.”

“That’s because you already know that you are,” Richie grins, pumping his hips and grabbing his crotch lewdly. Before Stan can berate him for it though, Richie asks, “Who’s the most romantic piece of shit in our little band of misfit toys?”

“Other than Eddie?” Richie nods. _Obviously._ Stan looks over at him incredulously. “If you have to ask, are you even his friend? Ben would probably be _insulted_ if you didn’t call him. I’m sure he’s been writing soliloquies in that little notebook he carries around with him about how _the moon is in your eyes when you look at the boy who’s short of breath_ or something equally nauseating.”

“Wow. That was so mean about so many people at once, and somehow not even a little bit homophobic,” Richie says, eyebrows raised, golf clapping as best he can with the clunky phone still in his hand. “I’m genuinely impressed.” He punches in the number and listens to it ring before Ben picks up, voice as quiet and sweet as always as he gives a standard greeting.

“Hullo Benny Boy, it’s your favorite resident trashmouth Richie Tozier on the line!” Richie cries, a manic tremor already present in his voice. Ugh, shit, so he’s gotta deal with _this_ now on _top_ of the nerves. Great.

“Oh, hi, Richie!”

“How do you feel about coming over to Stanley’s for some seduction education? Seductucation, if you will?”

Ben laughs, ringing safe like church bells in Richie’s ear, “Sure, Richie, I’d be honored to help. Who’s the lucky gal?”

 _“Ha!_ You’ll seeeeee!” Richie shrieks before half-screaming, “Be over ASAP old boy, and bring your thinkin’ shoes!”

Richie punches the END button much harder than necessary, chest heaving as he stares at his battered Chucks, still a little damp from walking through the snow.

“Wow,” Stan says. Richie startles, having forgot he had an audience. “That was absolutely horrendous. Like, I’ve never seen a bigger trainwreck in my life.”

“Mean!”

“You probably would’ve done better had you just flat-out said, ‘I wanna fuck Eddie and I need your advice’.”

“Okay, I get it, asshole. Cut it out,” Richie says, a little tender, a little scared. Stanley does, going quiet and slumping in his seat in this kicked-puppy manner he has of moving sometimes. “It’s fine, Stan. I’m just... I’m actually really nervous about this whole thing. Like, it’s so important. I can’t fuck it up.”

“I know,” Stan says, his tone more of an apology than his own words could ever manage. “It’ll be okay.”

“No, like...” Richie sighs, sitting up straight and running a trembling hand through his curls that have grown out a little to combat the winter cold. “I’m scared, dude. What if Eddie gets freaked out by the whole thing, and he stops being friends with not only me, but you guys as well? The guilt would eat me alive.”

“Well, do you know if he’s gay, too?” Stan asks, eyebrow raised. “That might help.”

“First of all, rude. You don’t just go around asking people if they’re gay, even if they’re not there. Like, especially, actually. And second off, not my place to say. Third, I’m not gay. I’m — ”

“I know. Mostly-gay. But about the first two...” Stanley huffs a sigh and rolls his eyes, looking a little hurt. “I mean, we’re all friends, but whatever. Guess you have a point, for once.”

Richie cheers, “Hell yeah I do! For always! And I want Eddie and I to be different-friends. Dicking-friends, if you will.”

“I absolutely will _not,”_ Stanley hisses, but the acid is gone as quickly as it came. He sighs, wincing before he even continues, embarrassed to be honest. Richie can relate. “I will castrate you if you ever tell anyone I said this… you and Eddie are special, Rich. You have this different kind of way of just… being. You know? Like, the way you guys are is just different than the rest of us. None of us are romantic aside from minor kid-crushes, but with you guys, it’s always been kind of… obvious. That there’s something special with you. Not to other people, obviously, but… like, Eddie very _rarely_ beeps you, even when he probably should. And he always laughs at your jokes, you know? That’s gotta mean something. And you always get this moony look in your eyes when he talks about medical stuff, or rags on you really well. We can all tell there’s something there, and none of us mind, I’m sure of it. He won’t freak out because you’re friends, and even if he _is_ straight, so long as you’re forthright and honest and not making jokes about fucking his mom or whatever, it should be fine.”

“Well, we’re not exactly _just_ friends, but...” Stan’s face twists up in confusion, like, _so what’s the problem then?_ “I mean, okay, what do you call it when you hardcore make out with someone, but it was only once, and at a party, and the person never mentions it again, and you were both a little drunk, but definitely not drunk enough to forget any of it?”

“Uh,” Stan says, “nothing?”

“I call that Halloween,” Richie says, giving Stan a significant look.

“Ohhhh.” He snorts indelicately. “Woah. I can’t believe Hurricane Shots actually worked. That’s so fucked up. Eddie is shockingly easy—I would not have expected that.”

“He’s not _that_ easy,” Richie moans, slumping back to the ground, starfishing. “It’s been, like, six straight years of me pining miserably and attempting to get him to notice the very obvious hard-on I have for his... heart. My heart-on.”

“Wow. Classy,” Stan says flatly. “Also, are you _sure_ all those years have been straight?”

“Whew!” Richie cries, sitting up once again with a whooping laugh. “Stan the Man gets off on a good one!”

“I’ve been known to,” Stanley grins. A timid, polite knock interrupts their nice little staring contest, and Richie springs up into the air like a jackrabbit.

“I’ll get it!” Stanley mutters _my dad’s gonna kill me_ from behind him as Richie swings the door wide open with a manic grin smeared across his face. “Well, hell-lo! Lookie what the pussy cat dragged in, it’s Mr. Handsome Hanscom himself!”

“Aw,” Ben grins, ducking his head shyly.

“Come on in, my good man! Yes yes, Benny Boy, hang your hat on this here rack and we’ll get right to work!”

“Gee, Richie, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were on drugs or something,” Ben chuckles, turning to hang up his coat.

Richie’s smile falters, twitches, and it’s a false laughter that he punches out of his chest in response. Nobody notices. “I wish!” He shrills. Damn, does he ever. Maybe calling Bev would’ve been better after all; she might’ve brought him some of their shared stash and he could’ve smoked the nerves right out of his skull. That would be so much more preferable than this coming-out bullshit. “Let us retire to Master Uris’ chambers.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” Ben giggles, making his way up the stairs. Richie’s smile loses that manic edge to it, and smooths out to something more stable as he takes follows him up, two at a time. However, by the time they’re all back up in Stan’s room, he's back to Full Freak Out Mode, pacing and rambling as Ben and Stan situate themselves on the bed.

“Okay, so I need to do this really good for Eds. Because he deserves it, but also because I am a fucking idiot and I have no idea what would be too much. Should I ask him while skydiving? Skydiving is romantic, right? Can you even go skydiving in the winter? Beach is out for the same reason, and I can’t get us to the Empire State Building. Plus, he’d probably fall off anyway knowing him, so—”

“Wait,” Ben says, “I thought I was helping you woo a girl. Why are you throwing Eddie off the Empire State Building?”

“Oh,” Richie says, “uh.”

“Smooth,” Stan snorts, getting more comfortable on the bed. Richie fully expects him to pull out a bowl of popcorn or something equally mean, oh, and, yep, there’s the big Kit-Kat bar Richie brought over as incitement. He peels it open and happily snacks on it. He even breaks it section-by-section instead of just biting into it like everybody else. Awful.

“Ugh. How many times do I have to have this exact same conversation? Why can’t I just tell everyone in the world all at once with a huge megaphone?”

“Bad idea,” Stan says.

“Can I summon Satan and make him inseminate the knowledge into everyone I want him to instead?”

“Worse idea,” Stan frowns, shaking his head. “Just tell him.”

"Who, Satan?"

_"Ben."_

“Fine,” Richie sighs, looking back at Ben who’s wearing a more shell-shocked expression than Richie’s ever seen on anyone. “I’m, like, gay.”

“Well done,” Stan snorts.

“Well, I’m right, aren’t I? Fuckin’ cocksucker...”

“Wait.”

“Nah, I think that’s more your gambit.”

“Wait!”

“You _wish_ you could suck this cock!”

 _“WAIT!”_ They both turn to Ben, startled. “What do you mean you’re ‘like, gay’?”

“Oh, you know,” Richie says vaguely, waving his hand dismissively.

“I really don’t!” Ben cries, looking so confused he’s edging on nervous. Ben doesn’t ever like to be the least informed person in the room, and Richie knows this, but the more anxious Ben gets, the more Richie realizes he has a lot more to lose with this than Stan led him to believe.

“I’m, like, mostly-gay. You know.” He flips his shaking hand over like a pancake. “Comme-ci, comme-ça. Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a person by the toe, gender isn’t a determining factor in who my dick gets up for, the end.”

“Oh,” Ben says, brows still quirked, the gears in his head turning so fast, Richie’s afraid steam’s gonna start pouring out of his ears. “You mean you like both guys and girls?”

“Yup. I mean, not, like, smack-dab in the middle,” he puncuates his point by loudly clapping his hands together, making Stan wince, “but yup.”

“So, like, bisexual?”

 _“Ben!”_ Stan hisses, smacking his arm as Richie stares blankly. “Don’t be rude!”

“What? I’m not being rude, I swear! That’s a real thing, that’s what he was just saying!” Ben rubs his arm, slumping miserably, a little nervous he’s really offended Richie instead of just thoroughly confusing him. “It’s not a slur or derogatory or something! It just means he likes both!”

“Oh,” Stan says, wilting a little, embarrassed, “sorry.”

“Wait,” Richie says, still staring. “There’s, like, an actual word for me that exists for me for real?”

“Yeah! I was reading about—”

“So this means that other people feel this way?”

“Yeah! Like I was saying, I was—”

“This is _great_ news!” Richie cheers, lighting up like a Christmas tree. “I’m not a crazy person!”

“Well, that remains to be seen,” Stan says with a fond smile. Not even the slightly-too-on-the-money-and-a-little-mean-regardless-of-intent comment is enough to dampen Richie’s mood.

“What a good day! Thanks, Benny Boy!” Richie smiles, bouncing on his toes. “Bisexual... Nice...”

“You’re welcome, Richie. Glad I could put my nerdiness to good use for once.” Ben attempts to steel his expression into something as serious as he can manage while still feeling as happy as he is, which—God help him—isn’t very. He’s no Stanley; he’s a big ol’ softie, and Richie loves him that way. “Okay, so Eddie? He’s the fella who’s caught your eye, eh?” Ben giggles, false seriousness breaking almost as soon as it comes, elbowing Richie in the side.

“Sure has, handsome!” Richie grins, jumping onto the bed and crawling into Ben’s lap, folding himself on top of him like a sexy French woman. “But don’t worry, you’re still the only monsieur that can moisten my loins.”

“Gross!” Ben laughs, shoving at him until only his legs are draped over Ben’s lap. He claps his hands on Richie’s shins, still smiling wide. Richie wonders how he could’ve ever pegged Ben to be someone who would give him shit for falling in love, no matter the gender of the poor motherfucker. “Don’t skydive. Too ostentatious, and also, have you met Eddie? He would be too busy having a heart attack for his ears to work.”

“True,” Richie laments, sighing dramatically as he leans his head on Stan’s shoulder. “He just doesn’t _get_ romance like we do, Benny my boy.” He’s shocked that Stan doesn’t push him away or tighten up in fear the second Richie touches him like he usually does. “Any other suggestions?”

“Maybe get him a gift?” Stanley says, half-question, like he’s too self-conscious to pose it as anything but. “Valentine’s Day is coming up.”

“Yeah!” Ben cries. “Oh, Stan, that’s a great idea! Make it a big date, he’ll never see it coming! And they have those dyed roses at the gas station.” He’s grinning wide as he slaps Richie’s legs excitedly. “My aunt bought a few of them for my uncle on Valentine’s Day last year, so I’m sure they’ll be there. Make a whole thing of it, rose petals leading up to the bed! Make him dinner, maybe! He likes pasta, and mac and cheese, and tomatoes, but I’m sure he likes other things you can make easily as well. Oh, how romantic!”

Richie snaps his fingers and points at him, face lighting up, “You’re right! Now we’re cookin’ with gas! I mean, not literally, because I’m a _terrible_ cook and might actually burn my house down if I tried to make something that isn’t ramen, but… The flowers leading up to the bed I can do! Stanley, you got any other input? I thought you needed kookie kookie to lend you his romance-bones.”

“Ha!” The force of Stanley’s genuine laughter jostles Richie hard, and that just makes his grin expand from making the Impenetrable Stanley Uris laugh. It quiets after a few moments, and Stan gets pensive, thoughtful.

“Just,” Stanley starts, cutting himself off with a sigh. He’s grimacing when he reaches out to take Richie’s hand, like it’s a hardship to do so. Maybe they aren’t really in a fight like Richie had previously thought. Something different must be going on. He’s hard-pressed to figure out what it is, though. “Eddie likes you so much, man. We can all see it. He’ll like anything you do for him. He already does. Just watch a movie or something, get him a flower, and ask him. I’m sure he’ll say yes.” Stanley nods decisively and removes his hand from Richie’s, wiping it on the side of his jeans compulsively. “Okay?”

“I mean, that’s all well and good if true, but…” He trails off, picking at a thread on Stan’s comforter.

When he tries to speak again, his voice comes out much smaller, much more self-conscious than he ever allows to bleed through. He’s usually right on top of squashing any genuine emotion to come out, usually because the emotion is usually self-pity. He _hates_ being pitied, and has to deal with it enough coming from himself—he might die if he gets it from others, too. Still, he trusts his friends not to treat him like that. Like, just because his brain is broken and makes him hate himself doesn’t mean they have to as well.

“I want it to be something special, you know? He deserves for me to not make this just a plain old ordinary ask-out. I know I’m not much, but I really, really like him. When I say that, it’s not just words for me. I can’t even really explain it, I just… I need him to know how important he is to me, and I know whatever I could say won’t properly… like…”

“He knows, Rich,” Stanley says, the same quiet self-consciousness coming through in his own voice. It doesn’t sound like pity, though; it sounds like a mirror. “Even if you can’t ever say it right, he knows. We all do.” And Richie can tell Stan doesn’t just mean they know about his feelings for Eddie—he means his feelings for the rest of them, too. Richie lets out a big breath and adjusts to put his head more fully onto Stanley’s shoulder, slipping his arm between his chest and his crooked elbow. Stan doesn’t push him away. If anything, Richie can feel the pressure from his mop of curls pressing onto his own.

“It’ll be special because it’s you and Eddie,” Ben promises, smiling confidently, shaking Richie’s leg purposefully, like he’s trying to instill whatever confidence he has left into Richie with the action, always giving and giving and giving, even when there's nothing left. “Plus, you’ve never done anything ordinary in your life; I’m sure you’ll think of something special that not even we would think of—you do know him best. Maybe make him one of your silly mixtapes, except not-so-silly this time.”

“Oooh, Ben, your vision is _stunning._ Five stars.” 

Ben grins, continuing, “Stan’s right. You two have known each other forever. Eddie thinks the sun shines out of your ass—”

“God knows why,” Stan grumbles with a small grin.

“—and he loves all the time you spend together. If there were anyone I would expect no trouble saying yes to being with you, it’s him.”

Richie smiles a little, albeit reluctantly. He’s still scared of the outcome—terrified, actually—but Ben and Stan are right. Even if things do go wrong, they’re still gonna be friends. He and Eddie have a forever type of thing in all regards, friendship most certainly included. He’s just being insecure. Plus, Eddie _did_ kiss him first. Or, well, he didn’t _technically_ kiss him, but he sure as fuck did _something_ in the realm of Not Friendly.

“Hey! Do you think he’s gonna wanna make out again?” Richie asks, suddenly re-energized, excitedly bouncing on the bed, feet kicking against Ben’s thighs.

“You've made out?” Ben asks, wrinkling his nose a little. “Well, you're certainly doing better than I'd expected.”

“Rude,” Richie grins, flicking the tip of Ben’s nose. “Whaddya think, Stanny, ya think your pal Rich is gonna get some action from Eddie Spaghetti?”

“I literally refuse to answer that question based on principle,” Stanley sniffs, crossing his arms.

“Don’t be a prude, Stan. Just because you’re not getting any doesn’t mean you can diss your superiors.”

“You think making out at a party with Eddie one time makes you superior to me?” Stanley cries, barking out a laugh. “You’re fucking cracked!”

“Well, I did _way_ more than _just make out_ with Jenny Morgenstern, _if_ ya know what I mean. Eh? Eh?” He elbows Ben in the gut, bouncing his eyebrows suggestively. He just frowns and shakes his head.

“I’d like you to die, please,” Stanley says, also grimacing, eyes hard and calculating. Damn, tough crowd. Bev would’ve liked that joke. Bev always laughs at his jokes. Eddie too, but maybe not that joke in particular. He needs to get funnier friends.

“Duly noted,” Richie grins.

“Hey, you know, there’s a cool movie store in Bangor,” Ben says, poking at Richie’s calves to get his attention. “Kinda like a Blockbuster, except less corporate and more permanent—like you can buy the tapes there instead of just renting them. They have all the director’s cuts of things, with bloopers and stuff; my cousin wanted to go, so we all went for his birthday in October. He got all three of the Godfather movies, special editions and everything. It was the bee’s knees.”

“You’re so cute, Benji,” Richie smiles, leaning over to pinch his warm cheek. Ben scoffs, waving his hand. “What a wonderful idea from the man of the hour. Studley, any ideas on what movie I should get him?”

“Tons,” Stan says, “but we all remember how many times he saw the sequel to Ghostbusters in theatres a few summers ago.”

“God, wasn’t that during Clown Summer, too?” Richie swoons. “He’s such a little nerd.”

“It must’ve been pre-clown because I don’t really remember. And can we come up with a better name for it that doesn’t give me the shakes?” Ben frowns, tapping his fingers in a hard and fast rhythm against Richie’s legs.

“Oh. Sure thing, Ben. Sorry.” Richie sits up a little, reaching out to put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Are you still thinking about that a lot?”

“Of course,” Ben says, startled by the mere implication that he could possibly not. “Aren’t you guys?”

It was a stupid question Richie knows, but he sometimes forgets that everyone isn’t like him: able to smother his worst and darkest thoughts, even from himself. He’s miserable, and traumatized, and terrified, sure—in theory. But not in practice. The way people who are afraid of the dark feel like they can’t understand what they can’t see? Well, Richie’s the opposite—he’s afraid of the light.

“All the time. Every day,” Stan cuts in before Richie can say anything, his voice hollow. They turn to see him staring off into space, like he’s watching to make sure the shadows are just shadows. Stan, Richie thinks, is probably one of those people who feels like they can’t fight what they can’t see. Maybe _that’s_ why Stanley has been more acerbic than usual lately. It would explain a lot. “It never made any sense, even while it was happening, and now I feel like I can’t escape It, even if it’s just the memories now. Maybe I never will. Maybe the only way to escape it is to...”

“Stan,” Richie frowns, putting his free hand on Stan’s knee. _YOU LEFT ME! YOU MADE ME GO INTO NEIBOLT!_ Stan shudders at the contact, but puts his hand on top of Richie’s before he can take it away. “We love you.”

“Yeah, Stan,” Ben smiles, small and nervous. “Lots.”

Richie wonders if Ben remembers the things Stan said when they finally found him in just as vivid, painful technicolor as he does. He’d cried then, and he has to swallow down the lump in his throat compulsively to make sure he doesn’t now. He figures Ben must remember—they both must. It feels like the kind of thing that’s impossible to forget.

Stan’s mouth twitches—the ghost of a smile. His eyes dart over to them, quick, like he’s afraid they’re hiding in the corners of his vision the way Richie feels like the clown still is, and nods. “Thanks.” He turns back to Richie, eyes a little more vulnerable and a little more scared than they were before. _YOU AREN’T MY FRIENDS! THIS IS YOUR FAULT._ “You and Eddie gonna leave us in the dust when you become Derry’s newest power couple?”

“Psh, no way—no one could usurp that title from Marci Fadden and Peter Gordon.” He says it like a joke, but makes sure Stan can see the truth written plain in his misty eyes, feeling all of 13 years old again: _We would never let anything happen to you. We’re here for you. You know we’d never do that to you._

“Oh, of course not,” Stan says, inconspicuously breathing out a sigh of relief. “How could I be so blind? They’re really soulmates. True love, honestly. You and Eddie could only ever emulate them.”

Richie laughs, nods, and pops off the bed. “Okay. I think I’m gonna head out, get a good night’s sleep for the drive to Bangor tomorrow. Benny, could you give me a lift home?”

“Sure. You didn’t drive here?”

“Nah, walked.”

“Richie!” Stanley exclaims, scooting to the edge of the bed. “You’re gonna catch your death, that’s almost a mile, and in the snow no less!”

“Okay okay, I already have one hot nurse fretting over me, I don’t need two,” Richie groans, rolling his eyes. He realizes how incriminating that statement is just a little too late, but he resolutely ignores it, and so do both Stan and Ben. However, the twinkle in Ben’s eye, like he’s seeing him in a brand new light, and the flames licking Stan’s cheeks are proof enough that they both caught on. Richie opens his mouth to make a joke about how Stan’s mom is way better in bed than he’d ever be, but luckily for all three of them, Ben beats him to the punch.

“Of _course_ I’ll drive you home, Rich,” Ben smiles, hooking his arm around Richie’s shoulders, steering them both out of the room and waving goodbye to a blushing Stan. “And save you from yourself,” he whispers once they’re out in the hallway. “No need to thank me.”

“Fuck off, Hanscom,” Richie grumbles, shoving him into the wall. “I regret telling you my deepest, darkest secrets.”

“Sure you do,” Ben grins, and Richie is hard-pressed to push the issue. He really doesn’t regret it. Even if Eddie _does_ tell him to fuck off, Richie will still have some pretty great friends and a new word in his lexicon.

 _Bisexual,_ he repeats quietly in the dark that night. _I’m bisexual._ It rings holy in his head the same way Stanley’s voice did when Richie came out to him. It feels a little strange, entirely unfamiliar, but not awful. Not in the least. He likes this word on him, feels more comfortable that gay or straight ever did.

He thinks he might tell Eddie about it on Monday when he picks him up for school in the morning, but tomorrow, he’s gonna borrow his dad’s car and drive to Bangor to get Ghostbusters for Eddie. He’s gonna buy some flowers and chocolates and make sure Eddie can’t ever forget him, even if he does end up rejecting him. He’s gonna make it the best damn proposal in the history of proposals.

Okay, that’s a high bar. He’s no John Hughes. He knows Eddie deserves more than Richie can possibly give, but he’s been trying to figure out the right way to say this for weeks; months; years, even. He’s been stressing himself sick over it, trying to find the perfect thing to say, trying to find the perfect person to be to get Eddie to love him back. He’s gotta figure it out eventually. He has to get this right.

Once he gets the words just right, he knows the right time will present itself. The universe put them in the same town for a reason. There’s something about them, all of them, that feels fated somehow. Important. They wrecked a demon clown together; that’s the kind of bond that lasts forever. And maybe he’s only getting sappy because he’s been running himself ragged in his head and wracking his brain for the perfect way to say it, but no one’s gonna know but himself and the fake-Eddie he’s discussing this with in his mind.

 _Eddie, you’re the best man I know. No, God, just say something like, Eddie you’re just swell, and I’d like to take you out if I can. Oh fuck, don’t sound like such a pussy about it. How about, Eddie, I wanna kiss you again. Or, in general. I wanna, stick my tongue, in your mouth? Shit, that’s not sexy. Would you_ **_want_ ** _this to be sexy? Would you be more likely to say yes if it was sexy? Sexy doesn’t even sound like a real word anymore. Fuck love. This sucks._

Whatever he does end up saying, he’s gonna make it count. He only gets one shot to knock Eddie’s socks off. There’s no way in hell he’s gonna fuck this up.

He’s gonna flip Eddie’s world on its side, or he’s gonna die trying.


	9. October, 1993

_Suicidal thoughts, but I won’t do it  
Take that how you want, it’s important, I admit it  
_ _I'm afraid of commitment, don't know how to fix it_  
_Maybe codependent, can’t tell the difference_

 _Maybe I'm broken, either way I'm clinging on closely_  
_I know it’s unhealthy, appreciate your patience_  
_I know that I’m selfish, do my best to be selfless_  
_I know that I’m changing_

_I want more out of life than this  
_

—SAN MARCOS, BROCKHAMPTON 

 

Richie and Bill have the second life-altering, mind-numbing, bleeding, blistering, scarring fight of their lives on October 25th, 1993.

It starts out a day like most of the rest: Richie is woken up by his mother coming in and brushing her fingers through his hair, quietly alerting him that it's time to wake up. It’s Sunday—no school—but if not for her gentle alarm clock voice, he thinks he might sleep his life away and not give a shit. Her wake-ups always makes him feel a little too young, a little too vulnerable, still wounded, makes the fading scar on his palm ache, but he hasn't told her to stop. He doesn’t think he ever will. She opens the blinds for him, letting the natural light filter in, and alerts him that breakfast will be on the table in 15 minutes, blowing him a loud, smacking kiss on her way out. He reaches up to catch it without opening his eyes, and her boisterous laugh echoes through the quiet house. For a moment, he's afraid it could wake the whole neighborhood. Could even wake the clown.

His eyes snap open. He doesn't feel so tired anymore.

He drags his feet through the rest of the dreary October morning, even when his mother tells him she’ll be attending a business trip with his father next weekend, leaving next Friday afternoon after work and returning sometime Sunday evening. She asks if he’ll be alright, he responds, _yes motherrrr,_ and she's grinning when she tells him not to burn the house down. It only takes a moment of mental math for Richie to realize, shit, Saturday is _Halloween._

“Wait!” Richie grins, perking up suddenly, the coffee hitting him at the same time as an idea blooms. “Can I have a friend over?”

“Oh, a friend, huh?” Wentworth smirks from overtop both his reading glasses and the morning paper. What a little shit.

“Yeppers. A friendly friend indeed.”

His parents both know about him and Eddie, and honestly, it’s fine. Like, being gay is kind-of-illegal-or-whatever-probably, but it’s still fine—at least here it is. His parents make sure to drill that knowledge into him whenever he feels spooked to even exist around them. He wants Eddie to feel as safe here as he does, but in the rare moments in which he’s honest with himself, he knows Eddie won’t ever feel safe anywhere. He knows it’s not his fault. He knows there’s nothing he can do but love him. It still doesn’t make him feel any better, though.

Went’s already torn out the funnies for Richie to peruse. Calvin and Hobbes only prints on Sundays, much to his chagrin because Richie _hates_ being patient. It’s just not in his DNA. It’s hard for him to get into watching shows on TV live—he doesn’t get how Stan and Bill can just _wait_ for episodes of Seinfeld. He only watches the reruns when they marathon them on NBC. But today is Sunday, and on Sundays he doesn’t _have_ to be patient.

Since Calvin and Hobbes started printing in the mid-80s, Richie has kept every comic in a shoebox beneath his bed. It’s an embarrassing collection, disjointed and out of order, but it’s his, and he’s proud of it, even if he doesn’t tell anybody about it. When Waterson took his hiatus last year, Richie felt a little bereft the whole time, like which the prospect of the comic strip ending, that meant his childhood was truly over. He _hates_ his childhood, hates looking back at photos of himself. He doesn’t even recognize himself, and it makes him feel like he never really knew himself at all. Calvin and Hobbes reminds him of the childhood he wasn’t blessed enough to be able to enjoy, makes him feel okay in his own skin, like Calvin can be Richie instead of whoever the buck-toothed, bug-eyed boy in the photos is. But Waterson is back with an even bigger layout than before, and the comics are better than ever.

He picks up the cutout, thumbing at the corner, and reads it over, smiling wide. It’s one with Susie Derkins, proclaiming Calvin to be her househusband. He'd be fucked if he ever admitted it to anyone, but he always wished he and Eddie could jump into that world and settle there, a girl and a boy, whoever wanted to be which; just two kids who never grew up and get to love and hate each other comfortably in the same breath without being afraid of how it might look. Richie never had enough creativity for an imaginary friend, or a Hobbes, but he didn't really have the need to—he had his very own Not Imaginary Friends. He had, still has, his very own Susie Derkins.

Went snorts at Richie’s assertion, eyes cutting to Maggie. “I'm leaving this up to your mother.”

“Ugh,” Maggie says, glaring. “Traitor.”

Richie whistles innocently, swinging his feet. His mother turns his glare on him instead. Yikes. “I promise it won’t be a big deal, Mommy. Just a couple of friends. Pinky swear.”

He _thought_ he’d be pulling out the big guns with ‘mommy’, but Maggie just grimaces and shakes her head. “If you think that isn’t suspicious, you’re crazy. No chance.”

“Aw, Mags! I promise it’s just gonna be just me and my gaggle of chumps! We couldn’t burn a house down if we tried!” Okay, that’s not _exactly_ true, but what Mags doesn’t know won’t kill her.

She levels him with a disbelieving look. “Bullshit.”

Went laughs, and Richie hisses at him like a feral cat. “Stay out of this, _Wentworth._ If you aren’t going to contribute, you don’t get a say.” Went puts up one hand as a show of standing down, and returns to half-heartedly perusing the paper. Richie turns back to Maggie, trying to look repentant and sweet at the same time. He’s certain he just looks constipated. “Mom. Maggie. Mother Mags. I _may_ be a 17-year-old-baby-boy, but I totally have this under control. I’m gonna be off at college in a year anyway! I’ll need to know how to take care of myself by then, right?”

Maggie frowns, picking at her eggs like a sullen preteen. Oh, how the tables have turned. “Don’t remind me.”

“See?” He puts two fingers facing down on the table and walks them over to her, making a show of his little finger-man’s dance until he reaches her hand. She’s already smiling by the time he gets there, but she laughs out loud when he wraps the two fingers around her thin wrist and squeezes as tightly as he can manage, trying to imitate a hug.

“Alright, _fine,”_ she relents after a moment of smiling down at her hand, huffing dramatically. Richie cheers. “But I swear to god, if I get a call from the police, you’ll never hear the end of it. When I… When they called me and said you were in that accident, Richie, I…”

“Oh shit, Ma, woah,” Richie startles, prying his fingers from her wrist so he can grab it more gently, more seriously. “Is that what this is about? I’m fine. Look at me! With two months of physical therapy in the bank that you guys so _graciously_ paid for, I’ve got this. I barely even feel it anymore.”

“What do you mean _barely?”_ Maggie hisses, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Chill! I just meant that if I twist in a weird way, my ribs feel like they’re pulling out of my body! It’s no big deal.”

“That _sounds_ like a big deal, son,” Went says, placing his newspaper facedown. Bad sign—that always means he’s ready for a Serious Discussion, which Richie does _not_ want to have. Like, ever. He’s fine about the car accident. He thought they’d all moved past it. He and Eddie have had their little tiffs about safe driving practices (“If you put your left foot up on the dashboard when you’re driving _one more time,_ I will cut the thing off myself.” “Well, _that_ wouldn’t be very helpful to your cause!”), and Stanley won’t drive with him at all now, which stings a bit, but it’s fine. They’re just being the concerned friends they are.

If he’s honest, he doesn’t really remember a whole lot about the accident itself. He tried to get them to save the gifts for Eddie, but apparently they cared more about getting him safe than saving them from getting crushed along with the rest of his mom’s car. Fuck the police, and _not_ in the fun, anarchist way. He’s still sore five months later about how he lost the VHS and bouquet of roses for Eddie. 40 bucks down the fuckin’ drain, and all he had to show for it was a car-shaped pile of metal, a broken arm, some fucked up ribs, and a black eye that wouldn’t go away for two whole weeks. He didn’t even look hot like he thought he might’ve—black eyes don’t look as cool in real life as he thought they would.

Oh, and he got a boyfriend. That, too.

Or, like, he finally got Eddie to kiss him on the mouth after several arduous years of pining, and now he continues to kiss him on the mouth. Whatever. Schematics. Labels: who needs ‘em?

“It’s honestly fine, but if you guys don’t trust me…” Richie sighs, only half-dramatizing his disappointment.

“Richie, you know that’s not it. We trust you plenty. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t let you and Eddie hang out here alone while we go out on our weekly date.” Maggie sighs, eyeing the ceiling. “Though God knows why we do that to begin with.”

“Thanks, Mom, really feeling the love,” Richie responds flatly.

“Richie, I think we’re being very fair to treat you and Eddie like we would any other person you might bring home as a date. We extend you boys a lot of freedoms around here—freedoms you’ve expressed to us that Eddie isn’t normally afforded at his own home—and we’re glad to do so. Eddie’s like a son to us, you know that. But don’t demonize us for being cautious.”

Maggie looks to Went, frowning as she attempts to pick her next words carefully, mouth forming around open air. Her spine is straight, imitating bravery, but her shaking voice gives her neuroses away plainly. Richie can see why she and Eddie get along so well; there’s a shocking amount of similarities between the two of them. “Richie, with the way Reagan ignored the AIDS epedemic, and now with Bush doing the same thing, it…”

“Mom,” Richie sighs, embarrassed and inexplicably a little insulted, “you really, _really_ have nothing to worry about.”

“What do you mean?” Maggie frowns, looking up at him. His father picks the newspaper back up, using it as a shield. Richie can’t blame him. “Don’t you and Eddie…?”

“No, _Mother,_ we don’t,” Richie snaps, feeling as if a fuse inside him has been blown, “because as you already fucking stated, AIDS is a huge fucking deal and we’re both fully fucking aware of that. Plus, the condoms you gave me when I was, like, fucking 14 are definitely expired by now, and we can’t just go out and _buy_ some, because this town is like two square blocks wide and everyone will know by the time I get home from the fucking store, and we’ll both have to deal with way more shit than we already do. So _no,_ we _don’t._ ”

The silence that follows his outburst is deafening. Richie’s father has put the paper back down. His mother has silent tears rolling down her cheeks, and his father looks just as ashen, just as heartbroken. But Richie can’t find it within himself to apologize because he is so goddamn _angry_ —not at his mom, but the cowboy presidents their stupid country won’t stop electing, at the homophobic town he and his friends are trapped in, that he and Eddie have to be in this situation at all. They’ve just barely started transitioning from heavy petting to handjobs, so they’re _definitely_ not ready for full-blown sex. Richie may not be a virgin, but Eddie is special to him, he’s important, and he wants to treat him with the kind of reverence he deserves. He has no issues putting off sex with Eddie. Whatever makes him comfortable, really.

He just wishes they could decide for _themselves_ when they’re ready on their own terms and not have to keep pushing it off for fear of fucking dying if they do something more than what they have already. There’s so little information available about what causes AIDS and why; all they’ve been told is it affects “fags and druggies” as some asshole he used to get tormented by would ever-so-delicately put it. He loves Eddie so fucking much, and they deserve better than to be afraid not only of being found out, but of killing each other through intimacy. It isn’t fair, but since it doesn’t look like they’re ever gonna get out of this mess—not with the endless string of systematic ignorance his parents and everybody-fucking-else keep electing—they just have to accept this is the way it is.

But then his mom starts _apologizing,_  like Richie wasn’t the one who just acted out, and he gets so ansty that he explodes halfway through her tearful apology. “I’m so sorry, Rich. I didn’t mean to assume anything on your—”

“Hey, I thought breakfast was gonna be on the table by the time I got down. I see no breakfast. Papa, where do you keep the switch?”

 _“Richard,”_ his father says sternly, eyeing him critically from over his lowered newspaper, “that’s an awful thing to even joke about. Apologize to your mother immediately.”

“M’sorry Mags, you know I get…” He mumbles incoherently and shrugs, trailing off without finishing his sentence. Maggie stays silent; damn, he’s really stepped in it.

But when he really thinks about it, wracking his brain on how to apologize the right way, his parents have voted Democrat for as long as he can remember, and actively disparage George H.W. Bitch whenever they read anything about him in the paper. Not only that, but his mother was right: they _do_ extend a lot of courtesies other parents don’t. Richie should be grateful he hasn’t been thrown out yet—he knows a lot of kids in his position aren’t as lucky.

So he forces the words out as sincerely as he can manage, “Guys, thank you so much for… I dunno, giving a shit. Eddie and I are super careful not to do anything that would get either of us sick; lord knows he takes every precaution possible not to get a fucking _cold,_ let alone an STD.” His parents both chuckle quietly, and Richie shoots them both a small smile. “Really guys. And if we do ever decide to go farther than we have, we’ll be safe. _I’m_ safe; the injuries from the accident barely hurt anymore, I swear. Sometimes I do get these aches and pains, but the PT said that would be normal for at least a year, right?” Maggie nods reluctantly. “So I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Maggie blows out a steady breath and smiles at him, grabbing his hand from across the small table in the kitchen. “Okay, Richie.”

“Okay,” he repeats, and then grins. “So can I call Eddie? Maybe Bev and Stan and them? See if they can come over this weekend?”

Maggie looks at Richie’s father again who has once again picked up the paper he must’ve already finished as he means of deflection. Maggie sighs through her laughter and nods, “Alright.”

“Woop!” Richie cheers, leaping out of his chair and bounding over to Maggie’s side of the table to kiss her cheek. “Thanks mama, you’re the absolute best. A real peach, honest.”

Richie turns to go use the phone in the living room, but Maggie gently catches his wrist before he can leave. “Rich? Just… be _safe._ Alright?”

They share a smile and he nods in assent. “Promise.”

He presses a lightning fast kiss to the top of Maggie’s head as he reaches down to grab the Calvin and Hobbes comic from the table and pocket it. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do with it if not put it in the shoebox. He thinks he might just like the feeling of having something safe in his pocket. He flashes a grin at his father, and then bolts into the living room, skidding to a stop at the phone hooked up to the wall. He drags the receiver across to the small desk by the stairs that his mom occasionally uses if she’s feeling lonely and doesn’t want to hole herself up into her office and kicks his feet up onto it as he dials the phone number more familiar than his own at this point.

During the five rings it takes for someone to pick up, Richie twirls the coiled cord around his finger a few times, tips the chair back at an angle, and then subsequently falls backwards. “Ahh! I’ve been shot!” He groans, clutching his ribs as his parents come rushing in.

“Richie? Richie, honey, are you alright?”

“All good, ma, t’is merely a flesh wound,” he wheezes, flashing them a thumbs up as he hears his boyfriend demanding answers through the speaker.

He presses the phone to his ear, already grinning as he sits back up on the chair, gingerly cupping his ribs once his parents leave the room. Better not to worry them. “Eds?”

_“Richie? Are you okay? Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?”_

“Nothin’ you need’a worry your pretty li’l head about,” Richie says, sighing dreamily as he settles his feet back up onto the desk (choosing not to tip the chair back this time). “Missed your voice.”

 _“Richie, it’s been 36 hours since we’ve seen each other,”_ Eddie chuckles. _“You’re being overdramatic.”_

“At least I’m not the one counting,” Richie grins. Eddie huffs, then goes silent. “Gotcha,” he says softly.

 _“Whatever,”_ Eddie grumbles, but Richie can tell he’s smiling. _“To what do I owe the displeasure of your call?”_

“You know, this whole act that you’re disgusted by me isn’t actually matching up with the fact that you had my dick in your mouth twice already this week.”

 _“Richie!”_ Eddie chides, scandalized, much to Richie’s amusement. _“Aren’t you in the living room!? You can’t say stuff like that! Your parents might hear!”_

“Eh, they’ve heard worse,” he shrugs.

_“I don’t care! No more! You’re officially banned from discussing our sex life in a common living space! It’s my life, too, ya know!”_

“What about you, huh? Aren’t _you_ in a common living space, mister?”

 _“Yes, but my mom’s at church for another hour and a half.”_ Richie grins conspiratorially as Eddie adds, _“If you wanted to come over.”_

“For some hanky-panky?”

 _“No, you weirdo! And I literally_ **_just_ ** _banned discussion of that! I just… Ugh, missyourfaceorwhatever.”_

“I know you think that you’re speaking in tongues when you squeak your way through sentences like an anxiety-ridden mouse, but I’ve known you for so long that at this point, you could probably speak in fuckin’ Russian and I’d still be able to understand you.”

There’s a long pause before Eddie quietly admits, _“That’s kinda nice.”_

Richie grins at the ceiling and nods to himself. “I think so, too, sugar.”

 _“So…_ **_did_ ** _you have a reason for calling? Or did you just wanna torment me?”_

“I did have a reason, yes, the tormenting was just a nice bonus.” Eddie groans as Richie laughs. “My parents are going out of town next weekend.”

_“Like… all weekend?”_

“Ya heard right, cowboy, yessiree, this here buckaroo’s gonna have the ranch all to himself for three whole days and he’s thinkin’a invitin’ the rest of the gang over for some cattle raisin’.”

_“English, please.”_

“I’m gonna have a Halloween party.”

 _“Oh!”_ Eddie exclaims brightly. _“Wow! That sounds like fun! Have you told anyone else yet?”_

“You know you’re always the first call in my little black book, babydoll,” Richie croons, making Eddie giggle sweetly.

_“Loser. How about you call up everyone else to let them know and then come over afterwards?”_

“Sounds good, cutie, shouldn’t be more than 20 minutes, alright?”

 _“Alright,”_ Eddie chuckles, laughing over nothing. It’s one of Richie’s favorite things about Eddie, that when he feels happy and safe, he’s almost always giggling, even if Richie isn’t being particularly funny. Richie’s all-time favorite sound is his friends’ laughter, and Eddie awards it to him freely. Man, Richie lucked out. _“See you soon.”_

“Bye-bye, birdie.”

 _“Bye,”_ Eddie says, surely still laughing even as the soft _click_ of the phone cuts it off abruptly. Richie sighs with a grin, holding the phone to his chest like he’s a chick in _Grease_ or some shit, and goes to call his other friends after an allotted time for swooning. He makes it through calling Ben, Mike, Stan, and Bev (who tell him, _“yay, fun!”, “oh cool, I’ll come over after I make my deliveries!”, “fine,”_ and _“fuckin’ sick!”_ respectively) before finally calling Bill Denbrough.

Bill and Richie are friends. They are, he swears. It just always feels tense whenever they hang out together, like there’s an unresolved… _something_ on both sides. And not the type of something that went unresolved with Eddie.

Actually, ever _since_ Eddie, things with Richie and Bill have been… weird. There’s really no other word for it. They still see each other, at school and with the Losers, but they do not under any circumstances hang out alone together.

But it’s fine. Sure, Richie misses his best friend like shit, and there’s a massive ache in his chest that flares up whenever he remembers Bill can't speak more than two words to him anymore without slipping in some insult that sounds too real not to be intentionally mean. Richie remembers what they used to have, and why it began to disappear. It hurts. But Richie won’t admit the real reason for the disappearance; not to his parents, not to Eddie, and certainly not to himself. It’s just easier this way.

Speaking of Eddie, Richie isn’t totally sure Eddie has even noticed something is amiss, and if he has, he’s ignoring it even better than Richie is. Pretty impressive, considering Richie thinks of himself as an Olympic Gold Suppressor. Bill and Eddie are still best friends in Eddie’s mind, and every time Eddie brings Bill up with the same starry-eyed look he always used to, it digs the hurt a little deeper, makes the resentment a little more painful to experience.

Because Eddie loves Bill. And somewhere beneath all the unspoken hurt, Richie does too. But there’s something about the way Bill punched him in the summer of ‘89, no holds barred, and the sour expression on his face when he first learned about Richie and Eddie’s relationship that he can’t seem to move past no matter how hard he tries.

But he calls Bill anyway, both because it would be weird if he invited everyone except for him, and because Eddie loves Bill, and Richie loves Eddie.

 _Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring._ Jesus, Bill, could you take any fucking longer? Put down your dong and—

_“Heh... Ahem... Hello, Den-Denbrough Residence, B-B-Bill speaking?”_

“Hey-a Big Bill, it’s your old pal Richie T on the line. How ya doin’?”

 _“How am I... How am I d-d-ddddoing?”_ Bill asks, too flat to be considered incredulous, but might be in a different light.

“Uh-huh. Just a standard telephone greeting. Like, hey, how’s the weather? Or, hi, how may I transfer you to someone who might fulfill your deepest desires?”

 _“Who the hell would answer a ph-ph-phone like that?”_ Bill snorts.

“Phone sex operators. Duh.”

_“Those exist?”_

“Sure do.”

 _“Well. I guess you would know,”_ Bill says, a little dark, a little angry. Richie sighs, refusing to take the bait, no matter how hard it may be.

“Look, Bill, I was just calling to let you know that I’m having a little get-together at my place next weekend. Just us Losers, plus candy and ghost stories. We all know you’re the best at those, so your attendance is mandatory. Will you come?”

_“Sorry, Richie, I’m b-b-b-bbbbbusy.”_

“Busy,” Richie repeats. “You’re busy.”

_“Uh-huh.”_

“With what? What what are you so goddamn busy with that you can’t hang out with your friends on Hallo-frickin’-ween, Denbrough?”

_“I just am, okay? God.”_

Richie snorts; god, Bill's such a dick sometimes. “Well, are you _busy_  right now?”

_“Wh-wh-what?”_

“Now, Bill, are you busy right now? Right this very second are you planning some sort of elaborate heist, or doing an essay for a class you aren’t taking, or with your imaginary science partner, or doing any of the other whole host of excuses you’ve given me in the last year?”

_“Ruh-Ri-R—”_

“No? Great. I’m on my way.” And with that, he slams the receiver down, calls out to his parents that he’s going to Bill’s, and takes off on his bike towards Center Street.

It only takes about 10 minutes before he makes it to the Denbroughs. He looks in the driveway and sees the minivan isn’t there. Fabulous. So he and Bill can finally hash this out in peace. He ditches his bike on the lawn and stomps up to the door, knocking hard. Shockingly, nobody answers. He rings the doorbell eight times, and still Bill resolutely ignores him.

“C’mon, dude, it’s only been ten fuckin’ minutes, I know you’re still in there!”

Richie looks up to Bill’s window and watches the curtains move. He scoffs loudly, gathering up rocks from the front garden and muttering, “Fuckin’ coward. Loser piece of shit can’t even face his own best friend and tell him why he’s being such a fucking weirdo. C’MON DENBROUGH, I KNOW YOU’RE UP THERE, YA LITTLE SHIT, I CAN SEE YOU! YOU’RE NOT CLEVER! OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!”

He lobs a rock up at the window, but hits the siding of the house instead. It falls back to the earth and leaves a chip in its wake. He doesn’t care. He throws another one. It lands closer to Bill’s window this time, and leaves another sizable dent. “I’M NOT GONNA STOP, SO YOU BETTER OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR.”

The third rock reaches the window, but doesn’t hit the glass. Instead, the window opens, and the rock sails inside. “WHAT THE FUCK! Richie, you c-c-cou-could’ve taken my fucking eye-eye-eye out! Can you be patient for like t-t-tttttwo fuckin’ seconds and wa-wait for me to ggggget down there?! Or is that too much for your puny, hyperactive brain to handle?”

“Get the fuck down here, Denbrough, and we’ll certainly find out,” Richie grits out, his grin feral as he grinds his teeth to keep from screaming. _Fuck_ Bill and his self-important bullshit. Richie is officially done with him. He’s gonna make Bill tell him why the fuck he’s been so weird, or he’s gonna—

“I’m h-h-here, asshole,” Bill says, cracking the front door open and peeking his head out, like he’s afraid of Richie. Like Bill isn’t the one who started this, like Richie’s the one who punched him in the face and gave him a black-fucking-eye three summers ago. Fuck Bill. Fuck him. “What do you wh-wh-want? I told you I was b-b-bbbbusy next weekend.”

“Yeah, and you and I both know that’s a crock of steaming shit, so now you’re gonna tell me the truth. Why are you avoiding me?” Bill’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops. “Oh, you weren’t expecting Trashmouth Tozier to ever own up to the truth, huh? Well, fuck you, Bill. I’m not some emotionless asshole who robotically spits out jokes, and you fucking know that. So tell me: what the hell happened?”

“You just… Ugh, yuh-you promised me this wouldn’t change anything!” Bill shouts, letting go of the door and subsequently dropping his shield. Now that Richie can see his whole body, he can spot his shaking hands, his crossed arms, how his entire physicality screams petrified. “You guys pr-pr-promised it wouldn’t get weird, but it has. You and Eddie hang out together a-all the time doing Guh-Guh-God knows what, and the rest of us get left out of your weird relationship as a result, and it just sucks, okay? You ruined us, Richie. That’s what ha-ha-happened.”

This is what Richie had been expecting, but he feared was too honest to ever be admitted. But now that it has, he's fucking angry. Angrier than he ever has been before. Bill has the gall to say that they're ruining things when this thing they have with the Losers is perfect, it’s Richie’s whole fucking world—not to mention what he has with Eddie is sublime, and there is no ruining it, or what they have. All of them. Not even if Bill is pissed about how it’s suddenly ‘changed’.

“Do you know why we don't talk to you about our ‘weird’ relationship to you, Bill?” Richie demands, using very dramatic air-quotes. “Because you _called it weird._ That’s not fucking okay! Eddie and I are your best friends, and you can’t say shit like that to us.”

“I haven’t sssss-said it to Eddie. This is about you, Richie. You look like you're about to suck his duh-duh-dick every time we're together. It's fucking weird. Just chhh-chill with the PDA and we’ll be fuh-fine.”

Richie lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “What PDA!? Because Eddie is actually really damn careful to make sure we _are_ chill with the PDA, even around you guys. So if you've got issues about it you should probably talk to him because he is really sensitive about it, whereas I'm just slightly annoyed about all the blue balls I’ve gotten over it.”

“I'm not tuh-talking to Eddie about it. I'm talking to you,” Bill asserts, poking Richie in the chest just enough to make him stumble back a step. It's the start of something certainly, but Richie is too angry not to let it light the fire under his ass.

“Yeah,” Richie snorts, “that’s fucking clear, because you treat Eddie like this sensitive, fragile little flower, and he's not. He can take it. You all treat him like you need to shelter him from the world or something, but you can't. He's seen it already in ways not even you know about. And I'm not just talking about my dick. He's not Geor—”

“DON’T YOU _DARE_ TALK ABOUT HIM!” Bill screams as he lunges at Richie and shoves him off the porch. He hits the ground hard, and gets the wind knocked out of him so badly he can’t even see. By the time he gets his bearings, his ribs are screaming in protest to even move an inch, but he leans up on one elbow to look at Bill incredulously.

To his benefit, Bill looks shocked he even did that in the first place. “Holy shit, Richie, I’m so sorry,” he rushes out, bounding gracelessly off the porch and dropping to Richie’s side, breathing heavily. “Are you okay, dude? Oh, my God.”

“Barely felt it,” Richie attempts to choke out as his breathing comes back, the impulse to joke this away going strong, but his head is spinning, and honestly, he’s fucking pissed. So once he manages to get his bearings, he spits out, “What the fuck are you _doing?_ I was just stating fact. Eddie’s like a little brother to you, and—”

This is not the first time Richie’s mouth has gotten him into trouble. It’s not even the first time it’s gotten him in trouble with Bill. But it’s the first time he’s ever truly been surprised by it. When the first punch lands, he barely has time to react as Bill screams, “SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” Richie immediately feels blood begin to gush over his eye, something splitting and bursting, but he manages to cringe out of the way when Bill lunges for him again and punches the ground.

Richie has his arms up over his face in some attempt at defense, and Bill is wailing on those instead, no rhyme or reason to his literal madness. Richie can’t tell if he’s crying or it’s just the blood, because it hurts like a _bitch._ He can feel old bruises resurfacing, and his bad arm certainly can’t take this after being injured multiple times. Bill is bearing down on top of him, knees crushing his sides to keep him still, which hurts even worse than his weak punches do.

He doesn’t exactly know how it happens because he's in more pain than he remembers the accident itself ever causing, but eventually Richie flips them. The realization dawns on him as he looks down at Bill's perfect, porcelain face that he's been harboring a lot of anger for a long fucking time, and he channels it all into one silencing punch. The crack that comes after is deafening, and Bill manages to sputter out something through tears that have no clear arrival period, like maybe he’s been crying the entire time, “I think you broke my nose.”

Richie uses the rest of his strength to scramble off him and roll to the side, spread starfish. If Bill wants to kill him, if he’s gonna die at the hands of his best friend when there is a literal primordially evil killer clown sleeping beneath their feet, then he can go the fuck ahead, because Richie is done. He’s tired. He’s so fucking tired.

Bill doesn’t kill him. Instead, he stands up, spits onto the ground, and looks down at Richie with blood pouring out of his nose like a sieve, hoarsely choking out, “Leave.” A chill runs down Richie’s spine. It’s an entirely different situation, but the exact same anger and confusion and fierceness flows through him as to when Bill said it in the sewers. It even sounds like the clown still has a hand wrapped around his throat. Maybe it does.

“Bill, this is crazy,” Richie says, groaning as he sits up slowly. “You can't treat us like we're defected for this, wailing on me over it like you’re some homophobic asshole instead of our _best friend._ We’re not broken for this. We’re happy, dude. It’s killing us both that you aren’t happy, too.”

“That’s not it!” Bill yells, eyes shining, and he looks so genuinely frustrated that he has no way to get his feelings out coherently that Richie snaps his mouth shut. “I can't, Richie. You don't understand, I—” Bill sighs, and hangs his head, laughing dryly. A drop of blood falls to the earth. “Do you know what today is?”

“Uh,” Richie says, “Sunday?”

“It’s October 25th,” Bill says, raising his head. His eyes are rimmed red where they once were clear, and Richie’s stomach drops. “It’s been 5 years to-today since Guh-Guh— since Georgie died.”

“Oh, my God,” Richie says, eyes going wide. He mouths around nothing, trying to find something that would take all this back, but there’s nothing. There’s nothing he can say. Trashmouth Tozier is officially out of words.

“I’m not jealous, Richie. I’m really not,” Bill says, eyes burning. “You guys are my family. All of you. And now that you and Eddie are together, it feels like that puh-part of our lives is over. No more sleepovers all together, no more muh-muh-muh— no more movie nights, no more walking home from school as a group. I don’t know if either of you guys have noticed it, or even if any of the others have. But I did. I could tell something had changed ruh-ruh-ruh-right away, even before you guys ssss-said something. You walk him home from school every day, alone. He sleeps over at your house every Sa-Saturday, alone. You go to the movies together, alone. Always alone. Always to-together. I just... don't get why you had to change things. We were ffff-fuh-fine the way things were.”

“Maybe _you_ were, Bill,” Richie says as gently as he can manage, which probably isn’t very, “but _we_ weren't. Eddie and I were miserable in the attempt to suppress this shit. We're happy now. And it sucks that we can’t have happiness together without having to sacrifice yours. Bill, you’re my brother—you’re _our_ brother. You’re family. All I want is for you to be happy. But I can’t give this up for it. You can’t ask me to do that.”  
  
“I’m not, Rich. That's-that's not it, I promise. I love you guys, and I'm so happy you don’t feel as bad anymore. Honestly. You just nee-need to be aware that other people you care about feel-feel bad other than you and Eddie.”

Richie wants to argue, wants to say that he’s _always_ thinking about his friends. But while that may be true, he does sometimes short-sight the possibility that they could potentially feel just as bad as he and his boyfriend do. They aren’t the only sad people in the world.

Bill sighs, and offers Richie a hand to help him up. He doesn't want to take it based on principle, but he also might have to permanently make a home on the Denbrough’s lawn if he doesn't, so he clasps their hands together and allows Bill to carefully haul him up.

“I'm sorry, Richie. For treating you like duh-duh-dirt and for wailing on you. Both times.” They share a quick grin, and Richie feels his lip split as he does, but he pays it no mind. “I think I just need some time to process. To figure out where I fit in to your lives if I’m not leading them. I’ll cuh-come to your party and stuff—sorry I said I was buh-buh-busy, I was being wwww— weird. It's just been huh-hard for me, but I think it's harder in my head that I can't... th-that you're not…”  
  
And Richie thinks he might get it, even if Bill doesn't seem to. Before he and Eddie started dating, Bill had power because he understood them all. Every one of them made perfect sense to him. But now that Richie and Eddie have broken that pattern, Bill must feel like the only thing he had any control over in his life has disappeared.

Look, Richie doesn't _want_ all the power. He doesn't like it. Being second-in-command, being Bill’s lancer, that's where he thrives. He has no interest in usurping King Denbrough from his iron throne. But he knows if he ever said that to Bill, he’d go apeshit. Richie can tell Bill has no idea any of this is about a power struggle.  It might be less about Richie taking power from Bill as it is that power is now more evenly distributed. And he would be absolutely furious at Bill for being a pussy about it if not for how miserable he looks that he feels this way at all. Bill doesn’t _want_ to feel powerless, but he does. Maybe he really is; Richie is quickly learning that he doesn't know everything about anyone, even his friends.

He’s still angry about it, because they all deserve power, especially over themselves. Eddie barely has any power of his own due to his mother’s bullshit. But Bill was right: he and Eddie aren’t the only ones in the world with problems. And, call him a sap, but Richie feels sorry for Bill. He lost Georgie so violently, is still trapped in those memories of him drooling black bile. It makes sense that with all that's been taken from him, he'd need a little power back in his life. It's very hard to hate someone you understand. Richie could never in a million years hate Bill Denbrough.

He thinks, so long as Bill can unstick his head from his anus and Richie can accept that other people in the world have problems, they're probably all good.

They nod at each other, and turn to leave. They’re both still dripping blood on the front lawn and Richie is hobbling as he clutches his aching ribs, but they’ve clearly established some sort of truce. And that’s fine. It is. But if being with Eddie has taught Richie anything, it’s that there is something out there better than fine, and it’s worth fighting for.

“Hey Bill?” He grits out, feeling uncomfortable as he uproots unfamiliarly genuine sentiment from wherever he hides it. From the doorway, Bill turns. He looks just as tired as Richie feels. “I’m really, really sorry about Georgie. Sorry for bringing him up, sorry for using it to hurt you when we were kids, sorry it happened at all, just… He deserved to live a full and happy life, and I’m pissed he couldn’t, but so do you. You gotta let yourself live, Big Bill.”

For a while, Bill stares almost unseeingly. Richie squirms uncomfortably, mind reeling as he finds some possible way to expunge everything he’s just divulged from whatever record Bill probably keeps of all of his interactions. There’s gotta be some witty one-liner that’ll make that look go away that’s better than _ha! Sike!_ But then Bill’s expression clears, and it almost looks like he’s smiling. Almost.

“Thanks, Richie.” He nods, and then he really is smiling. “You, too, you know.”

“I don’t know what you could possibly be referring to, good fellow, I’m merely a humble servant of the—”

“Richie. Breathe.” He does. Well, he tries. He hadn’t realized he’d been hyperventilating until Bill said something. If Eddie were here, he’d probably force him to take a hit off his inhaler just to be safe. “It’s okay. We’re both okay.”

Richie cracks a smile. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Now guh-guh-go clean yourself up. Yuh-you look like you got trashed in an underground bbbb-boxing ring.”

“You really think that highly of yourself, noodle arms? Damn, the truth finally comes out,” Richie grins, saluting him and picking up his bike to walk it over to Eddie’s. Hopefully Sonia is still at church and he won’t have to answer to her while actively bleeding.

He makes out lucky, and Eddie shepherds him inside the moment he sees him, cursing at Richie about worrying him sick, telling him not to be late just so he can go out and get himself killed. He gingerly helps Richie up onto the kitchen counter, careful to avoid his bad arm, and assists him in removing his shirt to inspect the damage done to his ribs. Richie tries not to giggle at the tender touches, but he doesn’t do a great job. Eddie looks up at him through his eyelashes and sighs.

“Richie, you can’t keep getting into fights like this. It’s frightening to think you might… Ugh. Who was it this time?”

“Oh, uh,” Richie stutters. Shit, he hadn’t thought this far. He doesn’t want to implicate Bill now that they’re on better terms, but most of the gang that used to terrorize them as kids has either died, skipped town, or been incarcerated. He racks his brain for a name, any name, and comes up strangely empty. Uncannily empty. He shakes the odd feeling this gives him, saying, “It innit polite to ask someone’s name when they sluggin’ your guts, love.”

Eddie lets out a frustrated little huff as he sets out the supplies. “Well, whoever it was opened back up the scar on your eyebrow, so they’re officially on my goddamn shit list.”

“Oh shit, really?” Richie looks up, as if that’s going to help him see it. “That makes sense. All the blood and everything. Damn, I’m really gonna look like a jailbird now. Will you still love me if I’m no longer beautiful, Eddiekins?”

“No,” he deadpans, using a butterfly stitch to close it back up. “That was really the worst of it. I’m sure the rest is just internal. I’m gonna press on your ribs, tell me if each ache is dull or sharp. Hands on my shoulders,” he says, helping Richie lift his arms. He squeezes Richie’s injured arm in a few places to test and make sure everything is in its place. Richie winces a few times, but Eddie determines they’re only bruises. “Okay, ribs now. Tap my left shoulder for dull, the right for sharp, and stay still for neither.”

“Stay _still?_ What do you want from me, blood?”

“No, that’s actually the opposite of what I want,” Eddie says, already getting to work. Richie sucks in a sharp breath every now and then, but Eddie is gentle and seems to know what he’s doing. Maybe he studied up on rib injuries after the accident, or maybe this is just prior knowledge. He could just be bullshitting his way through this, too; Richie wouldn’t put any of them past him. He mostly stays still, with the occasional tap to Eddie’s left shoulder, but no sharp pains from what he can tell, and Eddie finishes up with a small, pleased kiss to his sternum.

“Good job, angel. I don’t think anything in there got re-injured, so that’s good, but make sure you tell me or your parents if anything starts bothering you again. Will you do that for me?”

“Uh-huh,” Richie nods, feeling the swell of emotions he felt at Bill’s ebb and wane, only to be replaced with something else, something much easier to live with. It fills up the hollow space the anger had left in him, swelling inside him like the tide. He smooths his hands over the backs of Eddie’s shoulders and pulls him close between his spread legs, hooking his heels behind Eddie’s thighs to trap him. “That was real nice of you, Dr. K. You’re the best. You gonna let me have a lick of that lollipop?”

“You can suck your own dick? Did they take out a few ribs while they were fixing you up?” Eddie asks, thumbing over the scars on either side of Richie’s torso where they did the surgery. “Because that’s the closest your mouth is ever gonna get to one.”

“Ha! Shucks,” Richie grins, brushing the tips of their noses together, “guess I’m just gonna have to make due with you licking mine.”

“You’re gross,” Eddie laughs, kissing him once, delicately, before pulling away. He smooths his hands up and down Richie’s thighs a few times before helping him off the countertop. “C’mon, up to my room. Plausible deniability for whenever my mom comes home. We can hide you in the closet or something. I don’t want you biking home like this.”

“Ooh, baby, you know it gets me all hot when you speak legalese,” Richie swoons, helping Eddie clean up his first aid kit.

“You think you can climb the couple stairs by yourself?”

“It’s only five steps. Plus, I can do _everything_ by myself. I’m a god. Nothing can stop m— _woah_. Youch. Fuck. Okay, maybe I need just a _smidge_ of help.”

“Don’t worry, baby, I got you,” Eddie says, hushed as he rushes over to grab Richie’s hand and steady him by the small of his back.

“This is so embarrassing,” Richie grimaces. “I need my _boyfriend_ to help me up the stairs like I’m some elderly invalid. You shouldn’t have to be doing this for at least another 75 years.”

“Not your boyfriend," Eddie says, a quick dismissal that sounds a hell of a lot like 'don't call me Eds'. Despite the heaviness of the words, they still make Richie grin. "And you’ll be 97 years old. You think you won’t need help up the stairs before then? You think you’ll be _alive_ then? With all those cigarettes you insist on smoking?”

“Cigs make me less anxious, and anxiety decreases lifespan. It’s science, look it up, dummy,” Richie says as they mount the top step. He’s already in Eddie’s room by the time he realizes Eddie isn’t beside him. He turns around to see Eddie standing in the hall, shaking like a leaf. “Woah woah, I’m sorry, what‘d I say?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Eddie says, strained the way he always sounds before an anxiety-slash-asthma attack. Richie lurches forward to try assuage whatever he did wrong, but he hisses as the sudden stretch of his torso shoots a blinding pain down his side. “Don’t make any sudden movements like that, idiot,” Eddie chides, voice trembling. “Go lay on my bed, we’ll talk there.”

Richie does as he’s told as Eddie busies himself with locking the door and stuffing the towel beneath the crack. He folds Richie’s shirt he brought upstairs and puts it at the foot of the bed, gathers the extra pillows he can’t use all at once from the closet, putting them all on the bed to ensure Richie feels comfortable, all while pacing and panicking with the best of them. Richie allows the quiet to turn into silence (despite the fact that it petrifies him) and then turn back to quiet again once Eddie settles on the bed beside him, tracing nonsense words into the notches of Richie’s ribs.

He breathes rhythmically and waits until Eddie begins breathing with him. It takes a while, but eventually their chests rises and fall in tandem, and Eddie is able to speak.

“Do you really think all my worrying is going to kill me?” He is so, so quiet, but not silent.

“What? When did I even imply that?” Eddie shrugs, burrowing even further into the sea of pillows. Richie works his arm underneath Eddie’s hip to tug him closer. “No, your anxiety will not kill you. I won’t let it.”

“What if you can’t stop it? What if you die before me, and—”

“Eddie baby, _no._ We’re so far away from that. I was only joking when I was talking about the cigarettes.”

“But you were right,” Eddie sighs, tucking his head into the space between Richie’s shoulder and his neck, Eddie's favorite place to hide. “People with mental illness are way more likely to die early, whether from stroke or heart attack or… worse.”

“Well, then we’ll both die early,” Richie declares. Eddie’s head shoots up, looking alarmed, and Richie just shrugs. “What? You know I’m just as cracked as you, my love.”

“No way. I’m cracked-er. The cracked-est.”

“Whatever you say,” Richie hums, slipping one hand beneath Eddie’s shirt to cup his hip. Arguing with Eddie over nothing is one of his favorite pastimes, but he’s still so _tired._ Maybe they can get a quick nap in before The Warden returns.

“Hey, Eds?” Eddie hums in response, shuffling to get comfortable. “You know we’re gonna be okay, right?”

“‘Course,” Eddie says, smiling against Richie’s skin. “Keep each other safe.”

“That’s right, sunshine, we’re gonna keep each other safe. You and me against the world.” Richie is grateful that Eddie doesn’t seem to note the tremor in his voice, just adjusts slightly so he can press his lips to the hollow of Richie’s throat. Richie shivers, sighs, and finally relaxes, going boneless in Eddie’s arms.

“Always,” he mumbles quietly against Richie’s skin.

“You’re my very best friend, Eds. You know that?”

Eddie grins, letting out a little giggle, the quiet ones that peel out of him whenever he feels safe. Richie smiles up at the ceiling. “Not Beverly?”

“That nerd? No way.”

“What about Stan?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Ben? Mike?”

“No, sir. Just you, only you.”

“Not even Bill?”

Richie falls quiet, lightly running his fingers over the ridges in the skin of Eddie’s hip, stretch marks that he hates but Richie loves. He loves every part of Eddie, wholly and unconditionally. It’d be a pretty scary feeling if it weren’t so programmed into his personality. He doesn’t know who he’d be without his love for Eddie. He hopes he never has to find out.

Eddie doesn’t notice Richie’s lack of response, mouth parting as his breathing evens out in little puffs against Richie’s skin. He tries his hardest to stay awake, wanting to experience every second of Eddie he can like there’s an hourglass counting the minutes until he loses him.

But Eddie has promised Richie that he isn’t going anywhere, and Richie wouldn’t dare leave Eddie willingly for the world. There’s nothing to worry about—at least, not with Eddie. “You and me against the world,” Richie whispers to no one, to himself, to the Calvin and Hobbes comic still tucked safely in his pocket, to the people they could be one day if only they could let themselves _live_ the way Richie told Bill he needs to, and falls asleep feeling safe despite the horrors that await them both just outside the door.


	10. December, 1993

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> minor sexual content warning, but it’s not rly descriptive of anything. get ur rocks off someplace else

_The truth is, my biggest problem’s you  
__I wanna please you, but I wanna stay true to myself_  
_I wanna give you the night out that you deserve  
__But I wanna say what I think and not care what you think about it_

 _Part of me loves you, part of me hates you_  
_Part of me needs you, part of me fears you  
__And I don’t think that I can handle this right now  
__Look at them, they’re just staring at me_  
_Like, come and watch the skinny kid with the steadily declining mental health  
__And laugh as he attempts to give you what he cannot give himself_

—Can’t Handle This, Bo Burnham

 

It all starts because Eddie won’t spend Christmas with the Toziers.

And it’s not like he _can’t._ No, Eddie is just being a stubborn little shit, because he totally spent Thanksgiving with them last month. And yeah, maybe he had to duck into the living room to use his inhaler three times (three times more than Richie has seen him use it in over a year; he hadn’t even known Eddie still carried the thing around, and Richie had to dig out the old (and probably expired, but it isn’t like they’re real anyway) aspirator he used to carry around for emergencies out of his dresser). And sure, Eddie had been shaking most of the time, eyes darting to the front door compulsively over and over, like Sonia was gonna break it down and drag him away by his neatly pressed shirt collar kicking and screaming, grounding him from that moment until he dies.

But it’s not like that’s  _Richie’s_ fault. That’s Mommy Dearest, Mrs. K’s fault, and Richie doesn’t think it’s very fair that he has to suffer because of her bad parenting, too. When Eddie asked her if he could spend eat dinner with Richie on Thanksgiving, promising to be back before nightfall so he could eat with her, too, she’d nearly thrown a clot screaming at him for being so rude to even _assume_ he could. What a bitch—no wonder Eddie lies to her about everything he does nowadays. Eddie said she’d done everything to keep him home aside from shackle him to the bed. Just to make it to dinner at Richie’s on time, he had to crawl out the window army style because it sticks in the winter and makes this heinously loud (and damning, unfortunately for Richie’s libido) creaking when you try to open it all the way.

There were about 45 minutes in the middle where he’d seemed to forget about the misery of getting there, the fear that Mrs. K would come bowling through the door like a human hurricane and demanding Eddie _come back right this instant!_ They were a great 45 minutes, mostly because she didn’t bowl through the door.

None of her sisters will visit for Thanksgiving anymore, so it’s been just her and Eddie since he was ten, eating canned cranberry sauce and a puny, fatty, burnt turkey. Richie has always hated that Eddie never got a real, sit-down family holiday with warm pie and lightly political conversation, but now that they’re officially dating (or, officially _whatever the fuck they are that Eddie adamantly refuses to label)_ he feels like it’s in his job description to keep Eddie from being forced to spend holidays with his terror of a mother. Richie thinks Eddie totally deserves to have a family like his, and he is more than willing to share until they can make one of their own.

But he supposes that was a pipe dream to begin with, because when Richie brings up Christmas at his house like it’s commonplace, like they do it every year, Eddie begins shaking like it’s Thanksgiving all over again. So much for having a family together—it was moronic to even entertain the idea.

“Richie, I can’t,” he insists, and shit, his voice is shaking, too, and Richie hates himself for a painful, blinding moment for putting Eddie through that before realizing that, wait, what the fuck is the issue? “My mom—”

“Eds,” Richie says, patient but quickly (way quicker than he used to) edging towards _something._ That near-blinding frustration he gets sometimes. Usually, he manages to keep it contained and directed only at his parents who are forced to love him even through what his mom calls his ‘teen angst phase’, and a few months ago, Bill, but it’s been leaking out of him at inopportune moments as of late, and Eddie is playing with fire by being so fucking _stubborn_ about this. “Honey, baby, sweetie, we’ve been _over_ this. Your mom didn’t even notice you left on Thanksgiving.”

“I know Rich, but Christmas is different. It’s a Christian Holiday, you know, and she always makes this big deal about the tree—which by the way isn’t even a Christian tradition originally, but God forbid I tell _her_ that. She makes us hang lights and ornaments and shit, even though she won’t let us put up a real tree. Something about splinters or allergies or something, you know her. Anyway, it’s a weirdly big deal for her, this whole song and dance of gift-giving that I can never measure up to. It’s always the worst day of the year, but it’s a necessary evil. I can’t miss it. I’m sorry baby, but I can’t.”

“Did you not have a good time at Thanksgiving?” Richie asks, suddenly, inexplicably and embarrassingly close to tears. He’d done his absolute damnedest to make sure it was a good day for Eddie, even going so far as to pick up that weird Freihofer's coffee cake that always gives him a weird film on the roof of his mouth but Eddie loves so much. He isn’t allowed to have at his own house because it's too expensive and rich for Sonia's completely arbitrary levels of what's acceptable for dessert. As if Twinkies are so much better than Freihofer's. Like, Richie bought the cake himself and everything. He tried so fucking hard, and it’s painful to hear that his efforts were all for naught.

“What?” Eddie frowns, his eyebrows pinching inward and he shakes his head in confusion, or conversation-whiplash, but Richie’s already too worked up to parse which one. “Of course I di—”

“Because if that’s the issue,” Richie continues, tripping over Eddie’s words without even knowing they came out, “you don’t have to lie to me. We’re friends, dude. I thought you had a little more respect for me than—”

“Richie, _stop,”_ Eddie snaps, clearly at his last rope as well. “Are you even listening to me? I had a wonderful time with your family at Thanksgiving, but that’s not — it’s just not _realistic_ long-term—”

“Oh, so we’re having _that_ conversation, huh?” Richie grins, a sharp, challenging thing that could cut Eddie if he tripped over the edges of it. For a moment, Eddie looks small and scared, and Richie feels a wave of self-hatred so strong he gets dizzy from the force of it. But Eddie never stays scared for long—not around Richie—brave like a bulldozer.

But Eddie needs to learn that being brave like a beehive is more conducive to growth. Living your life, trying to make and do for others, but willing to fight if directly attacked. Richie isn't attacking him (or at least, he isn’t trying to), he's just _frustrated_ because Eddie can't keep flattening everything in his path without listening to anyone and expect for people to take it. Eddie isn’t his mother, he isn’t a human hurricane, but he's going to end up hurting himself anyway, and he'll take Richie down with him in the process. Wherever Eddie goes, Richie goes, even if that’s straight into the belly of the beast.

But Richie isn’t Eddie mother, he isn’t manipulative and cruel, and so he tries to catch himself, tripping over his roadrunner tongue to try and take what he said back. He doesn't want to fight—not with Eddie. But before he can even try to soften his edges, Eddie steels himself, spine ramrod straight, tall and proud. There’s no arguing with Eddie like this, Richie knows, but he always tries to anyway. He thinks that maybe _one_ time, Eddie might actually accept he’s wrong. Just once. That might be even more of a pipe dream than Eddie taking his last name one day, though.

“There’s no conversation,” Eddie grits out, a muscle in his jaw jumping, teeth grinding. He does that at night, too, when he sleeps, stressed to the bone even in his dreams. Richie will massage the muscles when he notices in the morning (always unprompted because Eddie would never ask for something so intimate like that) and it feels so disingenuous that he stops himself from doing so now when he notices it. His fingers twitch, reaching towards Eddie, but he does nothing. Coward.

“Richie, we’re together, right now, and that’s important to me, okay? Any time we get to be together is. So this whole disaffected, if-you-don’t-care-about-me-then-I-don’t-care-about-you act? Cut it the fuck out. It wasn’t cute eight months ago when we first got together, and it certainly isn’t cute now.” Eddie sighs harshly, dragging his fingers through his hair and tugging hard enough that Richie can’t resist anymore; he reaches out to circle Eddie’s wrist and gently pulls his hand away from his head, coming back with a few loose hairs that flutter to the ground.

“Careful with that,” Richie whispers. Eddie looks war-torn, thunderstruck.

“I care about you,” he says, still holding on tightly to Richie’s hand, like a promise, like a prayer. “I keep proving that over and over and _over_ —or at least trying to. I withstand so much _shit_ for this, Richie. From my mom, from kids at school, even just from myself. I do it because you matter to me, and I care about you so much. The privilege of being with you is never lost on me. Having someone who craves my honesty and affection the way you do, someone who isn’t shy about his own, getting to kiss you, and hold you, and… it’s addicting. You drive me crazy sometimes, but I adore you.”

Eddie’s throat bobs as he swallows hard, drops Richie’s hand, and closes his eyes, unable to look at him as he says the words that Richie has longed to hear. They’re going through his throat like they’re catching on knives. It makes Richie’s skin prickle and heat up, guilty and reverent and terrified.

“I _adore_ you, Richie,” he repeats, because it’s important. He opens his eyes, and the fire in them is raging just as wildly as it was before. “But we can’t keep forcing each other to test the strength of our relationship like we’re in some sort of sick, never-ending dick-measuring contest, okay? I refuse to do that. Not even for you. I can’t do it anymore, Richie. It’s exhausting. So I’m done.”

“Wait,” Richie says, shaking his head a little desperately, refusing to let the tail end of Eddie’s speech permeate his defenses and terrify him, “what's happening? Are we breaking up right now, is that what's happening? Or are we just fighting?”

The fire immediately drains out of Eddie, the strong line of his jaw softening as he slouches and grabs Richie’s trembling hands again. “No baby, of course we’re not.”

“Which not?”

“Neither,” Eddie answers softly, squeezing Richie’s fingers with a small smile. “I just need you to listen to me, okay? You can be so stubborn sometimes, and—”

“Oh, _I’m_ stubborn?” Richie snaps, the fire reigniting in a flash once more. He feels faint again with the intense rise and fall of his emotions, but he ignores it, powering through even as he sways and Eddie has to tighten his hold on his hands to keep him steady. “Better take a look in the mirror if you think _I’m_ the stubborn one in this relationship, _cutie.”_

Eddie rips his hands away, lip curling in revulsion; perhaps it’s because Richie _still_ won’t listen to him, or maybe it’s because he used such a familiar and affectionate pet name—the first one Richie ever gave him—with such vitriol. Either way, the fire sparks right back up in Eddie’s eyes like it never left, says, “Okay, _now we’re fucking fighting,”_ and just like that, they’re blazing through the forest, killing every shrub, flower, and little defenseless creature that seeks shelter in their trees.

They can be like this sometimes, certainly; angry, volatile, ready to explode at any moment. But for 90 minutes on the Tuesday before winter break at Richie’s house, they _fight._ They’re like rabid dogs, tearing each other apart, reaching deep into any tender place they can gain purchase to until they’re both only shaking, hollow shells by the end of it. Richie had no idea they even had the capability to hurt each other like this. He didn’t think it was possible, not for them. This kind of fighting is for heterosexuals heading towards divorce; they’re _better_ than this. He thought they were better than this.

What finally breaks Richie out of the feral, manic trance they both seem to be in isn’t the realization that his parents will be home from work soon, or Eddie’s tears, or his own shaking hands; it’s catching view of the two of them in the mirror hanging over his door. Their cheeks and noses are ruddy with tears, eyes shining, but that isn’t what shakes him to his core, not really—it’s the look of pure _disgust_ on both their faces. Like neither of them have ever seen something so ugly in their lives before now.

It’s fucking _awful._

Because, shit, Richie fucking _loves_ Eddie. Like, way beyond the bounds of the normal, romantic way. He loves Eddie because they chased after one another in a horror house without thinking twice, and because Richie doesn’t feel like his day is complete unless he’s talked to Eddie at least once. It’s because Eddie is so exact about how much milk he puts in his cereal, he has to use fucking measuring cups, and because he was always so damned grateful when Richie would share his juice with him in school after his dad died, and because he looks so peaceful when Mike plays guitar for him, or when Richie sings to him for real, Voice-less and earnest in a way that he can really only achieve when he’s alone or with Eddie.

He makes Richie a more honest person, even if that means he brings out the ugly parts of him, too. Not all honesty is beautiful. Kind of profound, even though he knows he’s fucked if he can’t get the meaning behind it out comprehensively.

But Eddie’s noticed that he’s stopped paying attention, and looks even _more_ pissed off now, and Richie knows the shit they’re in is deep enough to drown in unless one of them can drag them both back out.

“What,” sneers Eddie, “am I _boring_ you?”

“No,” Richie says, a little laugh bubbling out of him unbiddenly, because that’s a ridiculous thing to even insinuate, no matter if it’s during a fight this colossal or not. “I’ve never been bored by you in my life.”

“Oh,” Eddie says, blinking dramatically, taken aback at Richie’s dramatic change in demeanor. Tears are still collected in Eddie’s eyelashes, clumping them together, there’s snot on his (okay, Richie’s) sweatshirt sleeve, and his hair is matted and greasy from how much he’s been running his fingers through it out of frustration. For all intents in purposes, he should look butt-fucking-ugly.

He doesn’t. Richie thinks he looks just as beautiful as usual.

“Eds, I’m really fucking sorry,” he says, not at all shocked to find that he really means it. Eddie is though, floundering uselessly before sitting down on the bed. Richie joins him, waiting for a response.

“No buts?” Eddie asks after a while, twisting his hands.

“What? Like, no butt stuff? Alright.”

“No,” Eddie says, garbled through his sudden, ugly laugh. His hand flies up to cover his mouth, trying to catch the sound and push it back in. So damn endearing. God, Eddie is so motherfucking cute. Richie hit the fucking lottery with him. He better not screw up this apology and lose the best goddamn thing life has ever given him, or he will punch life straight in the dick. He might even break its nose like he did Bill’s—he _has_ done it before.

“I _mean,”_ Eddie stresses after a few seconds spent composing himself, dropping his hand to wring them together again. The skin of his knuckles is going white from the force of his grip. Richie would laugh at the seriousness of his voice, like he’s trying to be more mature than he’s able to, but it dies on his tongue at the last second when he sees the set of Eddie’s eyebrows, expressing that he’s more confused right now than anything else. “You aren’t going to give me a reason why?”

“Do you want one?” Eddie immediately shakes his head. “Yeah, no, so it’s kind of a blanket statement. Don’t really wanna excuse my actions. I wasn’t listening to you, you’re right, I was being a dick, and I’m sorry. Do you forgive me?”

“I…” Eddie turns to Richie, searching his face for something. He still looks so lost, like maybe nobody has ever apologized to him without qualifying themselves before in his life, has only ever heard _I’m sorry_  with _but_  attached to it. Sometimes it baffles Richie how Sonia Kaspbrak can be so heinous to this wonderful boy. He deserves nothing less than perfect.

Eventually, the confusion bleeds out of Eddie’s expression, and Richie supposes he finds whatever he’d been looking for in him when he responds, barely a breath, “Yeah. I do.” Richie smiles, reaching over to unhook Eddie’s nails from where they’re embedded in his own skin and braid their fingers together instead. He holds onto Richie just as tightly as he’d been holding onto himself, but Richie doesn’t mind at all—anything to keep him from thinking Richie has any intentions of going anywhere. “Do you forgive me?”

“You didn’t even apologize, cutie,” Richie laughs, slouching back on his unoccupied palm so they’re at eye level. He makes a quiet promise to himself to _never_ use that name in any manner other than affectionate again. It means too much to them both. Eddie just shrugs self-consciously, muttering incomprehensibly in response. “‘Course I forgive you.” Richie shrugs, too, only slightly self-conscious himself because he knows his apology wasn’t good enough, but it’s not like Eddie’s was all that great either. He supposes it doesn’t matter so long as they both forgive each other just the same. “Was never not gonna.”

“Yeah?” Eddie asks, grinning shyly. Richie smiles back, close-lipped, squinty-eyed and so motherfucking fond.

“Yeah. You’re still my boy, right?”

“Right,” Eddie nods—immediate, resolute, almost proud. “Definitely.”

Richie shuffles back on the bed, pulling Eddie with him until he’s spooned around him, their preferred position. However, Eddie is clutching tightly to Richie’s t-shirt like he’s still afraid they’re falling apart at the seams, so Richie squeezes his wrists gently where he’s holding onto them, feeling Eddie’s rapid pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips.

“You good, sweetheart?” Eddie nods slowly against the back of Richie’s neck, mechanical, but he still breathes out a little unsteadily, hands continuing to tremble. “You need your medicine?”

“No,” Eddie responds immediately, not even bothering to think about it. “No, I—no thank you. I’ll be alright.”

“Okay, good, because I'm super comfy right now, and I'd hate to be cuddle-cock-blocked,” Richie smiles, proud because he knew that Eddie would be fine, and he knew that he didn’t need his inhaler, but he’s so glad that Eddie knows it, too. It’s quiet for a long while as the sun sets and paints the room a light auburn. They’re fast approaching the shortest day of the year, and the sun is only out for about 9 hours a day before it sets again. It’s 4:15 in the afternoon (or somewhere around there; Richie keeps forgetting to set the clock back, and it’s been about 15 minutes slow since the summer on top of that) but there’s still barely any light in the room. It spreads a slow kind of sadness in Richie’s bones, the kind he usually only gets when he’s been alone for too long.

“Hey,” Richie says, throat raw from raising his voice for almost an hour. He doesn’t bother clearing it. “You don’t have to come over for Christmas.” Eddie makes a soft, wounded little noise, and tugs at Richie’s shirt in a vain attempt to get Richie to face him, but he just keeps his eyes fixed resolutely on the wall in front of him instead, staring down the curling corner of his Evil Dead poster. “No, for real. I understand that Thanksgiving was hard for you. Thank you for coming in the first place, it was the best Thanksgiving of my life. I don’t know if I ever said that, but… Either way, I’m really grateful that we could spend even just one holiday together. I dunno, I know it’s stupid, but sometimes I pretend you’re in my family. Like, a real, bonafide Tozier.”

“Ew, like your brother?” Eddie snorts, lips pulling into a grimace against the back of Richie’s neck. “Gross.”

“No, idiot,” Richie chuckles, shifting uncomfortably. “You know, like you’re my… like we’re… whatever.”

“Ooh, is the Big, Bad Richie Tozier _embarrassed?”_ Eddie squeaks, grinning so hard his teeth graze Richie’s skin and make him shiver against his will.

“No,” he insists, crossing his arms and going dead weight against Eddie as he pulls and prods at him, trying to get him to turn around. “I’m never embarrassed. I have nerves of steel.”

 _“Eddie!”_ Eddie shrieks like an idiot, pitching his voice so high that Richie would be embarrassed for him if he weren’t mocking him directly. _“Look at me, Eds!”_

“Oh, okay, so you’re going to hold what I said during a near-death experience against me? Cool. Real mature,” Richie scoffs. A reminder of one of the most terrifying moments of his life smarts a little, old wounds always fresh, especially from the fight they just had, but he doesn’t feel it would be prudent for the preservation of their relationship to say so. He can handle himself, and it’s not like he hasn’t said way worse before. He’ll get over it in a few minutes, anyway—he’s terrible at holding a grudge.

Richie wonders when this role-reversal happened. He used to tease Eddie like this exclusively! This is _his_ territory, and he has the urge to defend it, but it bleeds out of him when Eddie sits up to lean his torso against Richie’s arm and hook his neck around to look at him, grin silly, but eyes so goddamn _soft._ The hair on the back of Eddie’s neck is _soft,_ and the skin on the insides of his thighs is _soft,_ and his eyes are almost always so fucking _soft_ when they land on Richie. It’s such a stark contrast to his hard elbow digging into Richie’s gut, or his hard resolve whenever anyone questions him who isn’t his mother, hard like a hurricane, except not. Eddie is not like a hurricane at all. He digs his other elbow into the bed and rests his head in his palm, and it’s gotta be an uncomfortable position, but he looks so fucking peaceful that Richie can’t help but smile back.

“I pretend we’re like that, too,” Eddie says once Richie’s finally given up and made eye contact. It’s barely an admission of anything shameful; it sounds like a truth universally acknowledged more than anything else, and Richie feels a little silly that he never picked up on it before. Of _course_ Eddie would pretend they’re family. He barely has one of his own to begin with, and Richie’s is the closest to one he's ever had. “I’m glad we’re together now, though, like, romantically or whatever. I always felt so weird before when I’d have to pretend we were brothers. _Gross.”_

“What, have I not _always_ been imaginary-husband material?” Richie scoffs, touching his fingertips to his chest, scandalized as Eddie slithers over top of him so he’s squished between the wall and Richie’s body, trying to get even closer to him. However, his attempt gets him sucked into the crevice between them as he slowly falls into it. He tries scrambling for Richie, trying to get him to anchor him, but Richie is still insisting his faux-insult, so he holds his hands high up in the air. “No! Love can’t save you now!”

“Motherfucker, I’m gonna—! Ack!” The bed is sliding out into the middle of the room, and Eddie actually almost falls through the crevice entirely, which would’ve been _hilarious_ had he not grabbed a fistful of Richie’s shirt in the process and knocked their heads together on the way to the floor.

“Ahh, fuck, _youch!_ You dare attack your spurned lover, sir!?” Richie huffs a sigh, pushing at his slightly-bruised forehead and hauling Eddie back up on the bed as he loudly declares, “You’re a menace to this once-great society!”

“You’re,” Eddie pants, glaring as he adjusts to bear down on him, suddenly everywhere all at once, “such, a dick.”

“True,” Richie grins, “but you adore me anyways, so.” He reaches up to cup Eddie’s jaw, pressing his fingertips into the tense muscles there like he wanted to earlier. Eddie immediately relaxes, letting out a quiet breath of _oh,_  and his body caves in on itself as his eyelashes flutter helplessly. He tries to keep himself upright on his elbows so as not to completely crush Richie’s tender ribs, but he’s shaking hard enough that he eventually has to lower himself onto Richie as gently as he can. Richie can’t say that he minds.

“That’s good,” Eddie whispers.

“Yeah?” Richie hums in amusement. He tilts Eddie’s head back up from where it’s buried in Richie’s chest and leans up to touch their foreheads together, not even registering the ache anymore. “How good?”

The touch is gentler this time, full of _lovelovelove,_ and when Eddie brushes the side of his nose against Richie’s, cups his jaw, and kisses him slow, Richie realizes he doesn’t have the faintest fucking idea where he’s ever gonna find someone like this again. Who’s gonna put up with him when he’s feeling hyperactive, or hold him when he’s too depressed to move, or tell him off when he’s being an asshole, or fight him and forgive him all in one breath? When they go their separate ways, how is Richie supposed to survive it?

He gently eases Eddie back onto the bed, switching positions to climb over top of him, still gently massaging his jaw muscles. “It's okay, Eds. I adore you, too,” he whispers into Eddie’s open mouth, because it’s important. Eddie melts into the mattress, letting out a relieved sort of sigh that’s halfway to a moan, like the idea that he is adored by Richie is so wonderful and erotic that he can’t bear to hold it in. “Shit,” Richie hisses, rocking his hips down reflexively at the sound, their hardening dicks dragging together deliciously, “I fucking _adore_ you.”

When they fuck, it isn’t rushed or frenzied, even though it probably should be with the intensity of the fight they just had, and with the knowledge that Richie’s parents are going to be home from work any minute. They fuck almost by accident, like they’re feeling too much that cannot be contained and they have to expand it until they’re bursting at the seams. They’ve only had sex—real, bonafide, ass-to-dick sex—twice so far, and it was perfect then, but this is even better than the first two times. Richie can’t quite pinpoint why. He doesn’t think it much matters.

His old bed creaks as he rocks into Eddie slowly, dragging it out so they’re both forced to feel every inch of each other. Eddie claws at his back and demands he go faster, especially considering Richie took 25 minutes just to open him up, but he refuses to, hushes Eddie, promises him impossible things like, _I’ve got you, you’re perfect, you're my best friend, you're my forever, you’re my favorite person in the whole world, love, love, love._ Richie keeps a tight enough hold on Eddie’s jaw so that it isn’t hurting him, but he can’t turn away from him either, has to look him in the eye as their hips meet and their burning skin sparks, and Richie tells him that he adores him, because he does, and because it’s really fucking important.

 _They’re_ important, even if they can’t spend all their days together, even if they both know they have an expiration date. When Eddie finally cums after 35 agonizing minutes, panting Richie’s name over and over again like a mantra—like it’s important—Richie realizes that he probably _won’t_ survive losing Eddie. This is as good as it gets for him, and he’s okay with that. He’s content with knowing that he’ll never love anybody else this fiercely again.

But then Eddie reaches up with loose, trembling limbs to wrap his arms around Richie’s neck and speaks to him with heavy lids, and a grateful, sated smile.  _I need you to cum right now or I might die before I get to see how good you look when you do,_ and Richie realizes that he couldn’t care less if his love for Eddie kills him.

If this really is as good as it gets, at least he had it at all. Even if he loses Eddie, at least he’ll always have the memory of his adoration to carry him through the dark.


	11. February, 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lil sexual content warning towards the very end, but barely. have fun with nothing

_Well, I may have been a little ray of sunshine  
__Hopefully better than the rest_  
_But honey, you deserve the whole damn sun  
__And every golden moment it reflects_

 _Darling, flowers were made for the garden_  
_I’m not quite everything you need, I beg your pardon_  
_Darling, you were made for a garden  
__Don’t settle just yet_

—Flowers, James Spaite

 

Sometimes, Richie wakes up crying.  
  
They are these awful half-mornings where he has to press the heels of his palms into his eyes before they even open, coming back drenched, mind a constant repeating loop of _feel too much feel too much feel too much hate it hate it hate it,_ like maybe telling himself the reality of the situation will make it go away. It hasn’t yet, but it’s still worth a shot, he thinks.

Richie has one of these terrible mornings the day of his and Eddie’s one year anniversary. It’s completely inexplicable, entirely unexplainable. He and Eddie are _fine._ There’s nothing particularly wrong. And yet, he wakes up with a tear-stained pillowcase and an empty bed. The worst of these mornings are the ones in which he wakes up in Eddie’s bed, or with Eddie in _his_ bed. He's grateful that’s not the case currently; he can tell by the lumps in the mattress and the quiet of the room that it’s his own, lonely room.

Richie knows he’s lonely; it’s an unavoidable, gnawing, ever-growing feeling that has no known beginning and no foreseeable end. But the problem is that he doesn't know _why._ He has friends who tolerate him and a family that loves him and an Eddie who puts up with him. He, for all intents and purposes, should feel filled to the brim.

But he doesn't. There's this cataclysmic emptiness that has made a hollow in his chest, and it won't fucking leave no matter what he does. Sometimes he finds things hidden there—a kiss on the cheek from Beverly, the time Eddie let Richie hold him for eight straight hours with only mild complaint, how his mother still brushes his hair if he asks her to, the painting of all his friends his sister gave to him last year for Christmas—but usually, there's only darkness to be found inside him. Not monstrous, like the sewers that still rot beneath them, or the deadlights asleep in Pennywise’s throat. No, something else. The kind of darkness that is so human, it's somehow scarier than the supernatural kind.

Maybe, he thinks, there’s a difference between _feeling_ lonely and _being_ lonely.

In his sleep-addled state, he doesn’t remember whether or not Eddie slept over last night. He thinks he might’ve, but Eddie has to slip out at dawn anyway to get back to his house by the time his mom wakes up. Richie used to wake up from the tinny _beep beep beep_ of Eddie’s wristwatch alarm to kiss him goodbye, but after over a year of hearing it, it gets filtered out during sleep, and when he’s the one to slip in through Eddie’s bedroom window, Eddie has to wake him up himself.

And the thing is, he and Eddie have _plans_ today. Big plans! It’s their combination-Valentine’s-Day-anniversary date, which is kind of a big fucking deal, and Richie totally regrets not waiting like _at least_ a week to tell Eddie he’s moony over him so there isn’t so much damned pressure. Not that Eddie cares all that much—so he says. Eddie’s the type of guy who will _say_ he doesn’t care if they eat fast food and watch a movie and do nothing today except just be with each other, but will still be disappointed for weeks if nothing happens. And he’ll insist on no gifts, but _totally_ hold a grudge if he doesn’t get something. Richie knows this. After a year of dating and 13 years of friendship under his belt, he _knows._

He wants to say he himself is a total Hallmark Holiday Hater, and tells Beverly and Stan just as much when they tease him about how big he’s trying to go with the day, but he still called Bill up a week ago worried about the track list on his mixtape because it needs to be _perfect,_ not kitschy and silly like the one he made for Eddie last year.

But Bill tells him he doesn’t give a shit. It kind of smarts, especially considering he and Bill have been on marginally better terms ever since their blowout in October, but Richie eventually weasels out of him that “Friday, I’m In Love” is too obvious due to the fact that he’s played the album nearly every single day since he bought it last year, and to go with something by Rod Stewart instead. Richie tells Bill that he’d rather tear off his ears than willingly listen to that whiny pretty-boy rock. Bill tells him to eat a dick. Richie tells him he’s already got that under control. Bill hangs up. It’s fine. He really wasn’t planning on getting stellar advice from him anyway, and besides, Bill is more of a fan of that whiny shit than he and Eddie are.

After the call though, he scraps the mixtape idea altogether and heads out to Mike’s hoping he’ll be more of a help than Bill was. Mike was way more jazzed to help Richie out than Bill was, and they workshopped the idea to spend the day on the farm. Mike even gave him the advice to head out to the pawn shop on West Broadway, saying there’s always cool stuff to be found there. Richie’s lucky that Mike is an actual godsend-slash-genius and he struck gold at the shop because he _really_ did not want to have to listen to Rod fucking Stewart. Perish the thought.

They’re supposed to go mini-golfing on the course Richie and Mike have been painstakingly setting up on the Hanlon’s farm unbeknownst to Eddie for the past few weeks, and then go back to Richie’s place for Eddie to sleep over and to give him his real gift, and also probably to bang if Richie didn’t fuck up the day too badly. Richie has been trying to figure out some New Sexy Thing to do with him, but that’s mostly just been causing anxiety that their sex isn’t Fun or Cool enough as it is, so he abandoned that research pretty quickly. He figured they can just have Regular Ol’ Normal Sex if Eddie feels like it, and that’ll be fine.

Of course, now he has to do all of this while having one of his Bad Days. And he’s kind of freaking out about it.

Because Eddie’s going to be here in, like, twenty minutes to go over to the Hanlon Farm, and Richie has sort of been hyping himself up about how cool the mini-golf course is, but now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t even know if Eddie actually _likes_ mini-golf. He tried to set up a whole day for them in _Chez Vrai,_ but the loft caved in after the last storm and the Hanlons had to render the barn unusable. Richie went to Will profusely apologizing and begging on his knees (quite literally) for forgiveness because it was _totally_ their fault, but Will insisted the building was old, and was bound to cave eventually, and offered free use of the barren fields of the farm instead.

So he tried to set up the course, but only had a week and a half to do it, not to mention it’s fucking _February._ There’s _snow on the ground._ Thankfully there’s only been a very light layer because it was in the 40s last week and most of it melted as a result, but when Richie looks out the window on the morning of the 14th, he sees that there’s _at least_ three inches of fresh snow. The Weather Channel _lied to him._ He might sue.

Eddie has bad body temperature regulation, getting very cold and very hot incredibly easily, and although he prefers the cold to the heat, he still gets really grouchy if his toes go numb. Richie told him to dress warmly for their Valentersary Extravaganza, but his wool socks might be in the wash right now, and if that’s the case, his toes will _definitely_ freeze, and Richie will have fucked up their entire day.

He’s gonna fuck it up anyway though, because that’s what Richie Tozier does. He’s a fuck-up.

By the time Eddie rings the doorbell at 11 AM sharp just like they planned, Richie is a shaking mess in his bed, still not having gotten up to even get dressed. _I’m gonna ruin this,_ he thinks as he hears his mom answer the door and direct Eddie upstairs. _He’s gonna hate me,_ he thinks as Eddie clip-clops up the stairs in his boots. _I hate me,_ he thinks as he pulls the blanket over his body right before Eddie comes in the room, knocking lightly before entering.

“Babe? You up?” Richie shakes his head, afraid to speak for fear that Eddie will be able to tell that he’s a failure even sooner. He’s only delaying the inevitable; it’s really only a matter of time. Eddie calls his name again, and laughs a bit when he realizes Richie is crouched upright under the blanket. “Is there room for two in that blanket prison you’ve constructed?”

Richie wants to reach out for Eddie, pull him close and feel his skin to remind himself that his broken brain is just being louder than reason, and Eddie definitely does _not_ hate him. But then he remembers their nasty fight in December, and he holds still, unmoving and terrified. Eddie hums, toeing off his boots and padding closer to sit on the bed over top of the covers. Richie can just make out his shape through the blanket and his fuzzy vision, never having gone so far as to grab his glasses from his bedside table.

“Richie? Baby, are you okay? Are you sick?” It’s a fair question; Richie’s been fighting several colds and flus sporadically throughout this winter, and always tries to keep away from Eddie as best he can during those times because he knows Eddie falling ill has many more consequences than Richie doing so. He isn’t sick though. He kind of wishes he were; that might make how horrible he feels make more sense. No, it’s only his brain that’s sick—not that he can tell Eddie that. He already has enough reasons to leave Richie; he doesn’t need another.

In the end, Richie just shakes his head. Eddie lifts up the corner of the blanket, and for a terrifying second, Richie’s afraid he’s going to rip him away from the thin membrane keeping him safe from the rest of the world, but he doesn’t. He just sticks his hand in and lightly wraps his fingers around Richie’s bony ankle.

“Okay. Here’s what gonna happen: I’m gonna go make you some breakfast,” Eddie says, voice soft, tender, patient, better than Richie could ever deserve in a million years, in any alternate universe he could ever try to imagine. “And when I get back, if I see one of your pretty hands sticking out from under the blankets, I’ll know you want me to stay so we can talk about what’s going on. If not, I’ll leave the eggs and bacon on the nightstand and I’ll call over here for you in a few hours. How does that sound, angel? Is that doable?”

And, fuck, Eddie is really taking this so much better than Richie thought he would. He’s so fucking _nice._ Richie should’ve known. He should’ve never underestimated how fucking _kind_ Eddie Kaspbrak can really be.

Eddie has never been around for one of Richie’s Moments—he’s usually very good at staving them off until he can sneak away for his Daily Panic Attack, scheduled once every school day at exactly 11:11 AM, 14 minutes before their lunch period so he’s fresh and alert and ready to act like everything’s alright. He’s been so nervous for so long that the nerves constantly simmering just below the surface of his skin only come out when _he_ decides it’s okay. He’s so practiced at the art of self-control, he wonders how anyone could ever think he’s impulsive. He supposes he _can_ be, if he’s manic enough that it overtakes him, makes him wild and uncoordinated in his actions and words, but for the most part, Richie is religiously, ritualistically restrictive.

Eddie’s own Moments happen often enough that Richie, through all his own shit and confusion and masks and fear, has been able to figure out how to be with him during them and talk him down. But Eddie himself has never seen Richie like this. It makes him sick to think that he can’t be strong for Eddie all the time the way he deserves. He should be with someone who can always hold him upright, not Richie fucking Tozier who makes a mockery of intimacy no matter how many times it’s presented to him on a silver fucking platter.

Richie nods at Eddie though, knowing he’ll relish the 20 minutes of alone time and use it to get the burgeoning panic attack out of his system. That’s more than enough time to clean up his act—he’s sicker than he once thought if it isn’t. Eddie squeezes his ankle gently and retracts his hand to leave the room. It only takes a few seconds after the door clicks shut for Richie to begin shaking so hard, he can hardly think.

Within a few minutes, Richie can smell oil sizzling and hear the sounds of laughter drifting from downstairs—companionship, family. His boyfriend and his family, so in sync, more in sync than Richie’s ever seen Eddie be with any other adults. Lucy’s home for the weekend citing that she needed a break from the stress of Boston University, and the four of them are downstairs cooking for him and each other. He knows he should join them. He wants to. But there’s a very cruel voice in his head that’s louder than ration telling him they’re a better family when he takes himself out of the equation.

 _Eddie fits better here than you do,_ the voice tells him. _Soon enough, they won’t need you at all. Eddie will have the family he needs, and your parents will have the son they deserved. There is no place for you in the world. You are being phased out of your own life, and you deserve to be. Poor, poor Richie the Fuck-Up._

He’s still trapped in his reeling, fragmenting mind when the door creaks open. He’s in the exact same place he was when Eddie left him 25 minutes ago, but the moment he hears the hinges squeak, he flings one hand out and wraps it back around his knees over top of the blanket.

“Hi, angel,” Eddie says, sounding relieved and cotton-soft as he pads closer. The food smells delicious—Eddie’s a pretty meticulous chef when he’s got the help of people he trusts and at least a mile or two between himself and his mother. He’s all about exact measurements and making sure nothing burns. Richie likes his bacon slightly undercooked, which Eddie says he will never understand, but he knows (after extensive research) that it won’t kill him to eat it that way, so he’s perfected it with the help of Maggie.

Richie loves him so motherfucking much, it’s genuinely a little disgusting. He makes himself sick with it sometimes, the depth and warmth of the feeling. It seems endless. It seems like it’ll kill him if it ever goes away.

“I made the bacon just the way you like it. Lucy had a piece while I was down there and she said it’s some of my finest work.” Eddie chuckles quietly, the bed creaking as he sits, careful not to disturb Richie or frighten him, still unsure as to what’s gone wrong. For all Eddie knew, they were going to have a calm day in, especially with the snow. Richie’s plans are thoroughly ruined now, because of three inches of immovable snow and his own stupid, sick head. “Will you have a piece? All this hard work, slaving over a hot stove for my boy, it can’t just go to _waste,_ hmm?”

Richie smiles wide underneath the covers, bashful only because Eddie can’t see him. He flips his hand that’s outside the blanket over, expectant, even though he isn’t very hungry at all. “Oh, so I don’t even get the pleasure of your company?” Richie warms at Eddie’s words, butterflies detonating, giggling slightly under his breath and wanting so badly to make a comment like, _I didn’t know I pleasured you so good, Eds._ He can’t find his voice though, and the mood shifts because of it. Eddie can tell something must really be wrong when even his teasing can’t pull Richie out of the dark.

“Richie, please talk to me. I’m so worried.” Eddie sighs, continuing on at a breakneck pace, a sure sign that he’s working himself up into an attack. Richie feels even more like a failure than he did before. “I asked your mom when I was down there how you’ve been the last few days, you know, and she said you’ve been out of the house a lot. If something’s wrong, or-or you’re seeing someone else, or you wanna break up, or you’re sick, or dying, or hurting yourself, or—”

“Eds,” Richie croaks out, quiet, a wrecked whisper, but Eddie stops speaking immediately, waiting with bated breath. “I’d never.”

“You’d never what?” Eddie asks, just as quietly, though far less nervous than before. Considering Eddie never actually put the bacon in Richie’s hand like he requested, Richie starts uselessly grabbing the air around him, unseeing, searching. After a few moments, the plate clatters onto the bedside table and Eddie’s trimmed nails slowly scratch over the sensitive skin of Richie’s palm, then lock themselves in the spaces between his own fingers. Richie squeezes, hard, maybe a little too hard to not seem cloying and needy.

He knows there is a very fine line between enthusiastic and desperate, and he has never been able to not toe that line, especially with the ones he loves. Eddie never seems to mind though. If anything, he squeezes back just as hard, just as desperate and enthusiastic and cloying and needy as Richie is. A perfect match. A perfect storm.

“Leave you,” Richie answers, barely a even whisper now, “I’d never, ever leave you,” because it’s the only thing from the list Eddie rattled off that Richie can promise.

After a long moment without speaking, Eddie requests, “May I come into your blanket-cave?”

Richie snorts and uses his free hand to lift up one edge, not enough to help Eddie under in any way, but a clear invitation nonetheless. Eddie takes it, untangling their hands so he can crawl under as Richie lays back onto the pillows, still curled up into a tight ball. Eddie eventually settles opposite Richie, tugging the blanket over their heads and snugly tucking it under his ear so that they’re still hidden—protected. Richie is very grateful for this, and closes his eyes; he figures if he can barely make anything out at the distance they’re at other than fuzzy shapes anyway, so there’s no reason to torture himself any longer. Even with his eyes shut, he can still feel Eddie’s on him anyway. He wonders what his boyfriend sees. If he likes it. If he’s disgusted. If he’s even Richie’s boyfriend at all.

He can feel Eddie’s hand hovering over the side of his face, and Richie’s heart rate has already picked up speed once again by the time it gently settles on his cheek. As it does, Eddie slips one of his legs between Richie’s, braiding them together, an unstoppable force. His hand wanders, tucking loose, greasy curls behind the shell of Richie’s ear, skating the line of his jaw with one finger, stroking his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. Richie feels one breath away from shattering completely. He thinks maybe he already has and Eddie is merely trying to piece him back together.

There's something kind of magical that happens within Eddie when someone else is in crisis: it's as if all his own fears and maladies and sicknesses just… disappear, and all that's left is a calm, collected, _loveloveloving_ shell. Richie has always envied that about him, the way he can scoop out his sadness and make room for empathy so easily. Richie doesn't have that same luxury.

“Happy anniversary,” Richie whispers with a self-deprecating smile, eyes still closed. “Sorry for ruining it.”

“You haven’t ruined anything,” Eddie insists, a little wounded at the implication. The tense air between them dissipates in a moment, though. “We’re together, and we have cold eggs. It’s already a perfect day.”

Richie smiles, tucking his nose into the pillow. He wishes he were hungry enough to eat what Eddie cooked for him, but he feels a little nauseous at just the thought despite the fact that he doesn’t even remember the last time he ate, too riddled with nerves. He reaches out, grabbing a handful of Eddie’s sweater. Richie can tell it’s his favorite just by touching it—it’s a pretty shade of blue, made of something real soft like cashmere. He wishes sometimes he were small enough to borrow it, but knows that if he tried it on, he’d stretch it, and Eddie would hate him forever. _Eddie already does hate you forever._

“I’m gonna ruin this,” Richie says, barely a sound anymore, just moving his lips slowly around the words. “Us.”

“Fuck that,” Eddie spits, a little too loud and abrasive in the quiet safety of the cave. Richie winces, untangling his fingers from the sweater, and Eddie curls his fingers into Richie’s hair and scratches at his scalp, an apology. His foot skates over the back of Richie’s calf, covered in his wool socks. Richie sinks, drifts, floats. “You can’t ruin it. We’re unruinable.”

“I will, and then you’ll hate me.” Richie wants to cry just a little, but he doesn’t. He feels the urge to, the gnawing pressure in his throat and a burning behind his eyes, but he doesn’t even need to consciously suppress it before the urge is gone.

“Don’t say stuff like that,” Eddie says, quietly heartbroken. “It scares me.”

Richie opens his eyes, searching for Eddie’s through the mess of sludge in his way. He feels miles away from him, not just because of his vision impairment. Terrified, he smiles, and says, “Don’t be scared. I was just kidding.”

Eddie leans in a few inches closer, and with this drifting, he’s now entered the very small window Richie has of clear-enough vision between sludge and more sludge. He knows his right eye is stronger than his left, so he fully tucks half of his face into the pillow and keeps his eye trained on Eddie. It’s enough so that, until Eddie moves again, Richie can see him perfectly. He’s smiling, genuine and honest and amiable and true—so goddamn beautiful. Clear. No static between them.

“Richie,” he sighs, “there is not a single universe where I could ever even dream of hating you.”

It’s a powerful thought, and something Richie contemplates a lot. The concept of death, always a breath away from his thoughts since the clown (and probably long before It, too). Science dictates that there are an endless number of versions of them that exist outside of this cocoon. Ones who have never met; ones who will meet later in their lives; ones who had different parents, different friends, different hometowns; ones where they don’t even exist at all. Universes without a clown, without fear, or homophobia, or hiding, or self-made prisons.

He envies those Richies and Eddies, even the ones who have never met; in a world without Eddie, Richie would have never had the need to take his Masks off at all.

“Ah say ah say, old chum, you’re lookin’ mighty glum,” Richie says, pouting dramatically in a crude mockery of Eddie’s expression. “Why don’t you flip that foxy frown upside down?”

“Shut up,” Eddie giggles, pawing at Richie’s chest.

“Oh boy oh _boy!_ My boy is such a _cute_ little thing, isn’t he, folks?” Richie prods at Eddie’s smiling cheek, pulling lightly. “The cutest thing on two legs, lemme tell you!”

“Richie!” Eddie squeals, shoving his hand away. “Quit it!”

“And there’s that precious little laugh!” Richie imitates a crowd roaring, breathing out harshly to sound like a cheering stadium. “Don’t I know it, folks, don’t I know it! Well, if you were thinking you could pocket this perfect li’l munchkin for yourself, think again! He’s all mine.”

“God help me that you’re right,” Eddie sighs, smiling as he tips his head upward, looking down at Richie through his eyelashes.

“And just moments ago, he was worried that your host of tonight’s event would _cheat on him!_ Perish the very thought!” Richie’s Voice wobbles with insecurity as he continues, but the Announcer pummels right though it. “As if I‘d give up this wonderful feeling for some other poor, unsuspecting fella! Ha! What a laugh!”

“Hey,” Eddie says, head tipping downward and far more desperate than enthusiastic now, “be serious for a sec.”

“Serious! He wants me to be _serious,_ folks!” Richie laughs, and the nerves vibrate his skull and eat away at his remaining sense of sanity. “Doesn’t he know that’s not even possible? There’s not a serious bone in this crappy ol’ body! What do you think he wants to hear? That I feel sick inside unless I’m with him? That I feel sick inside sometimes even _when_ I’m with him? That your ol’ pal Rich is a world-class fuck-up designed for failure? That I spent three weeks working on a plan for our one-year anniversary that we can’t even do because the snow, and the maggots in my head, and the-the-the—”

 _“Richie,”_ Eddie breathes, too close now to ever dream of seeing him. He’s pressing messy, petrified kisses to Richie’s cheeks, his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his temple, the corner of his mouth, anything to quiet the cruel voice in Richie’s head that managed to puppet his mouth through a Voice in a moment of weakness. It feels emotionally identical to when Beverly kissed his face the first time they got high. _Fucking moron,_ Richie thinks, hands still gesturing around nothing, floundering just as Eddie is, _you’re a selfish little prick for scaring him like this. You should be ashamed of yourself. Some not-actually-boyfriend you are._

Richie notices too late that fragments of the Voice are still coming forth, half-formed anger like, _“hate you, cruel fucking bastard, piece of shit, good-for-nothing little punk, scared him and now he’ll leave you, you deserve it, should be alone, already are, can’t even kill yourself Trashmouth—”_ It’s also too late before he notices that Eddie is crying now, too—big and sloppy and so, so scared.

“Richie, stop, stop, please stop. Why are you saying those kinds of things about yourself? You know I— You _know_ how much you mean to me! You know you being mean to yourself hurts me, too. Please love yourself, Richie, please. I can’t stand to see you like this. I’m so scared you’re gonna hurt yourself, and I won’t be able to fix it. I wish there were a bandaid I could carry around in my backpack for your brain when it breaks, but there _isn’t,_  so you’ve just gotta let me fucking adoring you fix it, okay? C’mon angel, you gotta let me fix it.”

Richie tries to breathe, but he’s scared, and he’s having one of the worst panic attacks of his life because this might be the end of them. Eddie might be too scared right now and run off in search of someone saner, instead of being stuck with the sickness of Richie fucking Tozier. It isn’t 11:11 AM, it’s 11:52 AM, and Richie is having a panic attack. Eddie doesn’t deserve this. He shouldn’t have to suffer through Richie’s sickness just as much as Richie has to on his own. “You can’t,” he gasps. “There’s no fixing me. I’ve got maggots in my head, Eddie. Those maggots from Neibolt crawled their way inside me, and now I’m sick. I'm sick. You should go because I’m gonna infect you with it, you should leave me because I’m _sick.”_

“Richie, no, listen, you’re not listening.” Eddie is on top of him now, straddling him and pinning his thrashing body to the bed, fingers curled around his wrists and holding them down next to his ears in a stronghold. Richie wants to find it sexy—he almost does, flitting between feelings at warp speed now, a runaway train. He takes a stuttering breath in, hips bucking off the bed, unsure if he’s trying to get Eddie off of him or press into him in search of relief—any relief. Anything that might change these awful, terrified feelings. Eddie presses his hips against Richie’s, grinds hard, but it isn’t sexy anymore, isn’t even trying to be. It’s — it’s —

“If you can’t be fixed, then you’ve got to just _listen.”_

So Richie tries. He tries letting the sound of Eddie’s voice, the soothing, dulcet tones, and the safety of Eddie’s confinement lull him into something less volatile.

“I don’t care where we go today, or if we don’t go anywhere at all. You’re my boy, and you have been for a whole year, and that’s an incredibly special thing. We’re celebrating that just by being together. I don’t need a big day out, I just need _you._ That’s enough. _You’re_ enough. I’m so proud of you every single day, Rich. You’re the smartest, bravest, loudest, silliest, best man I know, and I am so fucking _proud_ to be with you. No matter the maggots. Okay? You are the best damned friend I could’ve ever asked for. You make me laugh. I feel so safe and appreciated and listened to and understood when I'm with you. Every day, baby. You're like nobody else in the world. So I don’t care if you’re sick. You hear me? I don’t care, because I am, too, so if you’re sick, and I’m sick, then there’s no infecting anyone, and there's no need for either of us to go anywhere. I don’t _want_ to go anywhere because when I look at you, I get dizzy with how much I like you, with how pretty you always are, with how much I want you. And yeah, maybe that does make us sick, or sicker, but I don’t care. Even like this, even when you’re scaring me, and you’re scaring yourself, and you’re hurt and shaking and in _desperate_ need of a shower, _you are my favorite thing._ Nothing, not even the maggots, not even the clown, _nothing_ can ruin that. I won’t fucking let it, so _listen.”_

By the time Eddie finishes speaking, Richie isn’t thrashing, isn’t shaking, isn’t moving at all. He stares up at Eddie, and when he leans in close to make sure Richie’s listening, he sways right into the sweet spot; perfect vision. Totally clear. Richie sees him, understands him, _listens_ to him. He takes a big breath in and lets it out slowly.

“Good, baby, that’s so good,” Eddie praises, and with the position they’re in and the endorphin rush of coming out of a panic attack, Richie feels that familiar heat pool in his stomach, but feels sluggish and drugged to the point where he can’t do anything about it. His next breath is much more ragged than the first, but Eddie praises him again anyway, tells him how good he is, how proud he is of him. Richie wants to cry, scream, hug, kiss, fuck, but he’s so _tired._ He doesn’t think he could do any of it if he tried.

Eddie slowly untangles their hands, running the tips of his fingers slowly over the sensitive skin of Richie’s forearms. He still doesn’t move, only shivers involuntarily. “So soft,” Eddie coos quietly, almost to himself, drawing little circles with his thumbs at the crooks of his elbows.

His fingers travel over Richie’s biceps and shoulders, down his chest until they press against his heart. Richie focuses on his own pulse, the steady, rapid _thumpthumpthump_ of blood through his veins, pouring into him through the heart Eddie must have shocked back to life. Defibrillator hands. The thought makes Richie smile. Eddie smiles back. “There you are,” he says, like maybe he’s seeing Richie in a new light, too.

Richie’s next breath is more of a gasp than anything else. He manages to reach up and tug insistently on the collar of Eddie’s sweater. “What, angel? What do you need?”

“Hold me, touch me,” Richie says, small and so much further away from enthusiastic, desperate in a way he never wants to be, is embarrassed to admit to, even internally. “Please.”

“Anything you want,” Eddie says, fluidly running his hands from Richie’s chest to around the back of his neck and lowers himself down onto him. “I’ll give you anything you want.”

Richie sobs, only partially laughter, “That’s so stupid. I shouldn’t have anything I want, I’d just ruin it, or squander it, or—”

“Says who?” Eddie shoots back defiantly. “Fuck that! You do so.”

Richie grins, really laughs this time, even though it’s an ugly sound, all choked and hoarse through his tears. “Thanks, Eds. Sorry.”

“‘Bout what?”

Richie shrugs, kneads his fingertips into the muscles along Eddie’s spine, skin sparking like his nerve endings are turning back on after a whole lifetime of being offline. Eddie immediately goes boneless in Richie’s hold, collapsing heavily on top of him like he always does when Richie presses his fingers into his knotted muscles. He laughs again, and he feels light—lighter than he has in a long, long time.

“What are you _sorry_ for, ding-dong?” Eddie digs his fingers into Richie’s waist, making him cackle loudly and squirm. He squeezes his thighs tight around Richie’s hips, forcing him still as he tickles him.

“Truce, truce! Please, ahh!” Eddie drags his hands up Richie’s sides, palms against him hard so Richie has no choice but to feel every inch of him. His old injuries don’t ache; he feels like he can finally breathe again, better than even before the accident. Eddie reaches up to hook his triceps over Richie’s shoulders and dive his fingers through his hair, brushing through the unwashed tangles and tugging out the snarls. He kisses gently up Richie’s neck, making him sigh heavily, mind swimming, but not floating.

“Baby, darling, sweetheart,” Eddie murmurs against his skin, the little shit, “what are you sorry about?”

“I…” Richie turns to drag the tip of his nose lightly over the underside of Eddie’s jaw, making him shiver. “I don’t remember,” he finishes faintly.

“Good,” Eddie grins, lips dragging where they’re now pressed against his temple, “because there’s absolutely nothing to be sorry about.”

“I bet I could find something,” Richie says, barely a whisper in the air.

“I bet I could find something to distract you that’s way better than finding it,” he promises, grinding his hips against Richie’s and making his whole body shake and stir and come to life, synapses lit up and catching fire, reaching towards each other with the prospect of pleasure. Richie can feel Eddie everywhere, his jeans scratching against the bare skin of his thighs, dragging his boxers up as his fingers dance up the sides of his legs as the hair thins out and his legs meet the apex of his hips. Eddie presses his thumbs to the into the insides of his thighs, spreading them even wider.

“Please,” Richie whispers, desperate. “Touch me, Eddie. God, please.”

“I will,” Eddie promises, swiping his thumbs close enough to where Richie craves, making him whine high in his throat and twitch sharply, at Eddie’s mercy, always at Eddie’s complete and total mercy. “But first, you need to take a fucking shower. You smell like utter shit.”

“Ahh,” Richie sighs, deflating as Eddie removes his hands to place them on the pillow, on either side of Richie’s head as he smirks down at him proudly, “you’ve certainly got a way with words, you little minx.”

“I sure do. Now come on.” Eddie pushes himself off the bed before Richie even has time to protest and pull him back down.

“Noooo,” he groans out, grabbing for him to no avail. “Come back to bed, baby, I’m cold inside without you.”

“Cute,” Eddie says flatly, turning back from where he’s rooting through Richie’s drawers to flash him a grin like he really believes it’s cute despite the sour timbre of his voice. Eddie’s tone is never a very good indicator of how he really feels anyway, and Richie smiles back, continuing to flex his fingers in an attempt to lure Eddie back. “C’mon, shower. Up and at ‘em, shine ‘n’ rise, get that worm.”

Richie’s smile turns into a full-blown laugh as he raises himself up to plant his feet on the floor. “I’ve taught you well.”

“You’ve taught me nothi—” Eddie’s voice cuts off harshly with a gurgle, but Richie thinks nothing of it as he stumbles around his room to find a towel that doesn’t smell as bad as he does.

“Hmm. What do you think about this one? Does it wet your pick—… le, what have you got there?”

Eddie turns back with a small smirk, clean boxers, sweatpants and a t-shirt in one hand, and the little black velvet box Richie has been hiding for weeks in the other. “What’s this?”

Richie’s eyes widen, and then scrambles forward as he drops the towel, shouting, “Aw, _FUCK!”_

“Richie, oh my God!” Eddie laughs, rushing towards him and erasing the space between them, all while keeping the ring box out of reach, the little _shit._ “Quiet down or your parents are gonna walk in and see you screaming like a lunatic while you’re half-hard in your boxers. Fucking moron.”

Richie, of course, ignores him entirely. “Shit, _fuck! Aw, shit!_ Fuck, fuck!” Richie grabs for the box but Eddie pulls it back. “Did you open it? You little shit, I was hiding it so well! No one looks in my underwear drawer!”

“No one except the spectacular Eddie Kaspbrak who wants you to wear clean clothes, dipshit,” he chuckles, handing the box over to Richie. “No, I didn’t open it. Of course not.”

“Well good,” Richie frowns, fumbling for it, afraid Eddie’s going to take it back and open it before Richie’s actually _dealt_ with the situation inside of, uh, leaving his body from a sudden rush of adrenaline. The little speech he was going to pair with it when they returned from mini-golf this evening is already ruined. Karma really has it out for him today.

He ends up dropping the box in his mad dash to reach for it, knocking it straight out of Eddie’s hand. He sighs harshly and kneels down to grab it, but looks up when he hears Eddie’s breath get stuck in his throat, immediately trying to catalogue where he stored Eddie’s spare aspirator the last time he needed it. Eddie’s eyes are wide, his breath is coming out in short pants, and his hands are shaking now. He looks—well, he looks fucking _terrified,_ which is absolutely _not_ how this was supposed to go. _Where the fuck is that stupid inhaler? Desk? Bedside table? Fuck, I’m such a moron._

And then Richie notices that he is down on one fucking knee with a little black fucking _ring box_ in his proffered hands, and realizes _exactly_ why Eddie is working himself into an attack, looking down at Richie like he’s Clown Incarnate. “Oh, fuck, no! No no no, oh my God.” Richie scrambles up, opening the box as soon as he stands and pushing it out to Eddie. “No, this isn’t anything except a gift. Happy Anniversary, thanks for putting up with me, sorry for making you think I was seriously asking you to marry me at seven-fucking-teen years old.”

Eddie visibly relaxes. He looks down at it, marveling, and touches the ring lightly without pulling it out. “It’s so pretty,” he says, hushed, honest in the kind of way he never is unless he isn’t trying to be. “What kinda gems are those? There, those three in the band?”

“Rubies, I think. Or, well, ruby-knock-offs, considering it was like $35 at the consignment shop on West Broadway. Here, take it out, there’s a reason I got it, the li’l inscription, see?” Eddie does, twists it around so he can read it, and smiles. _i carry your heart._ Richie's been worried over whether or not Eddie would get the literary reference for weeks, tried to memorize the entire poem but could only manage the final stanza due to Cummings’ absolutely _batshit_ style. He’s already trying to run through it in his head to recite— _here is the deepest secret nobody knows—_ but when Eddie glances back up at him all misty-eyed, he’s not sure it really matters all too much if he gets the reference or not.

 _“Richie…_ This is so nice. Thank you.” He sniffs quietly, wiping at tears that haven’t fallen, and sticks out his left hand. “Put it on?”

“Of course, Eddie my love, anything for you,” Richie grins, made invincible from Eddie’s reaction. He tries putting it on his pointer finger, then his middle, then his fourth, but it doesn’t fit on any finger aside from his pinky. “Ugh! The guy totally lied to me! He said it’d fit, he swore! Fuck him!”

“It’s okay, Rich. I really like it on this finger.” Eddie’s smile is luminous as he holds up his hand, wiggling his fingers a little to model it for himself before turning it and showing it to Richie. “How’s it look?”

And Richie can’t help himself—he smiles back and tugs Eddie close, arms looped loosely behind his back. “Looks beautiful, sunshine. Just like you.” Eddie blushes, ducking to hide his smile in his shoulder, and Richie kisses the cheek he isn’t hiding. “No fair, c’mon, no hiding. Lemme see ya.” Eddie shakes his head, turning to hide his face in the hollow of Richie’s throat and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Aw. Cutie.”

“Not cute,” Eddie mumbles.

“Sure, Eddie Spaghetti. Whatever you say.” Richie presses a long kiss to Eddie’s temple and grins, teeth scraping against Eddie’s skin. He’s so proud and happy and in love. He barely even remembers why he was so nervous about today in the first place—Eddie wouldn’t care how they spend their day so long as it’s together. He should’ve known that. Maybe he’s not as good a forever-boyfriend as he once thought.

Eddie’s pressing tiny kisses into the space between Richie's neck and his collarbone, the only place he can reach without having to untangle himself from their hug. He’s smiling; he’s humming softly, the kind of noises someone makes when they don’t need words to express themselves; best of all, he’s _happy._ Richie made Eddie happy even though he’s sick in the head, cracked, filled with maggots like the version of himself he saw in the coffin at Neibolt has taken his place. He takes advantage of Eddie’s kindness, and makes a fool of himself every single goddamn day of his stupid, miserable waste of a life.

He’d break his own back to make Eddie happy, hoping it might please him to see someone he loves the way he does Eddie made happy by his own hand. It never feels like enough. He thinks it must be his cross to bear, his own personal albatross, to carry his misery around with him like a physical weight on his back, on his psyche, on his soul. He feels like he’s growing heavier with each passing day, and it’s exhausting. He misses the days when he was able to crack jokes so easily, when he had a Voice to use. Losing your Voice for a person like Richie is the most insurmountable grief there is.

But he can’t ignore how happy he’s made Eddie in the last few minutes; that would be a disservice to everything they are to each other. He’s seen Eddie flit through emotions faster than Richie ever thought possible, has seen him sad and scared and angry, has seen him excited and smiling and fucked-out, has seen him with everything he feels written plainly on his face, his heart stapled to his sleeve. He _knows_ Eddie Kaspbrak, and he knows this dumb, little gift that wasn’t even supposed to be the whole gift has made him happy.

For right now, for today, for this moment, that is enough.

Eddie pulls away, tugs on Richie’s hand, and brings him over to the side table, urging him to eat a little of the food he cooked for him. The plate’s gone ice cold, but the eggs are the kind of just-a-little-runny that Richie loves, and the bacon’s cooked perfectly, and it doesn’t matter that it’s frigid at this point; it’s still perfect. Once he’s finished, Eddie says he’ll clean up the dishes while Richie showers, but he’s only been in the bathroom for ten minutes tops when there’s a knock at the door.

“Rich-iiiiie, you’ve been in there for _forever._ I gotta use the bathroom, too.”

Richie snickers, but says nothing, which only serves to aggravate Eddie further.

“C’mon Rich, out, I _really_ gotta go.”

“Well, come on in, cutie, the water’s fine.”

Eddie sputters, “What?! No! You’re so gross! Fucking pervert!”

Richie laughs, big and broad and _normal again,_ thank _g_ _od._ “Both are true, but you can use the can with me in here. I promise I won’t peek.”

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Eddie sneers, but his voice is less muffled, closer than before. Richie hears the door click and lock shut. “Can’t believe you don’t lock the door when you shower. That’s so weird. What if one of your parents came in? Or Lucy?”

“Well, then they’d certainly get quite an earful, wouldn’t they, dear!” Richie laughs, putting on his Irish Cop Voice. “All me singin’ ‘n’ jackin’ ‘n’ dancin’.”

“You really… you know… _masturbate…_ in the _shower?”_ Richie hums absentmindedly in assent. Since making it past the beginning stages of puberty, Richie realized that sex isn’t as big a deal as everyone tells him to make it. He’s been jerking off since he realized he could do so without going blind. It’s fine. Sex with Jenny was fine. Sex with Eddie is _great._ It’s all cool, even though he knows Eddie wouldn’t be able to agree if he was told to while held at gunpoint. It’s okay; Richie loves him anyway.

He doesn’t mind that Eddie freaks out about the cleanliness of their sex life. He doesn’t mind that Eddie gets so scared they’re gonna bust a condom and get sick like his awful mother promised, and he’ll go weeks without feeling safe enough for Richie to fuck him. He can always tell when Eddie’s having one of his freak-out days, and he knows not to push the issue when those happen. He doesn’t mind that they don’t fuck like rabbits; he’s 17—he likes sex—but he likes Eddie _way_ more. Sex is one thing. Sex is fine. Eddie, however, is a whole other thing entirely.

Eddie shuffles past the curtain to flip the seat up, and Richie _really_ wants to peek even though he promised he wouldn’t, but he doesn’t. Damn, maybe he _is_ a good forever-boyfriend. _And the Forever Boyfriend of the Year Award goes to... Richie Tozier in the category of Not Torturing His Boyfriend In the Bathroom! This is his fifteenth nomination, and his first win!_ “That’s so unsanitary! Your jizz is gonna fuck up the pipes of your house!”

Richie shrugs, “Hasn’t yet, so I prefer to live on the edge. _L_ _iterally,_ if ya know what I mean.”

“I know that’s some kind of sex joke, but I have to pee so badly, I can’t understand it enough to deal with chastising you for it.”

“So _piss_ babe, for the love of God.”

It takes about 25 seconds of Richie singing and dancing (but unfortunately no jacking) within the confines of the shower walls before anything hits the toilet bowl. “God this is so weird.”

“It’s really not,” Richie chuckles. “S’nice.”

“Me peeing is _nice?_ Since when? Is this some kind of weird sex thing, too?”

“What!? _No,”_ Richie cackles, the sound bouncing loudly off the walls of the tiny room. “It’s just intimate s’all. Like we’re an old married couple who’s comfortable with each other, and has 2.5 white picket fences, and have _seen it all.”_ His Voice is pitched deep, a psychic maybe.

However, trying to figure out a name to give it doesn’t much matter, because after the toilet flushes, Eddie says right beyond the shower curtain, so close Richie can make out his shape even with his blurry vision, “You’re right. It is nice.” And then Eddie peeks his head in, a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. Richie only-half-pretends to be scandalized, making a show of attempting to cover up his dick with the shampoo bottle. He can feel the spray of the water go cold from the old pipes of his house not being able to take so much water use at once. He shivers under Eddie’s scrutinizing grin, not just from the cold.

“You Peeping Tom!” Richie laughs, a little choked. “Leave this place! Begone! Ye nary a gentleman, ah say, ah say!”

“Alright,” Eddie hums, flipping the curtain closed once more. Richie watches his form retreat to the counter opposite the tub and hop up onto it. He’s kicking his feet, tapping the cupboard lightly with his heels. Cute. “Guess you didn’t want that blowjob after all.”

“Woah woah woah! I didn’t say _that!”_ Richie cries, peeking his head out, trying to blink water and suds out of his eyes. “Get back here, you tease!”

“Ah, but I’ve been excommunicated from the Holy Church of Dick, haven’t I?”

“Never! My chapel doors are always open for cute boys such as yourself! Only holiness within these chambers, I swear it, sir! Jump in, and we shall surely have a splendidly sacred time beneath the firewater!”

“Firewater is alcohol, dipshit,” Eddie laughs, shucking off Richie’s favorite blue sweater and folding it up on the counter. Richie grins as Eddie begins to carefully twist off his ring.

“I thought it was, like, hot water,” he says, bringing his head back underneath the spray, the well having recovered enough for the water to go warm once again.

“No, the Native Americans called it that I think. Something like that. But it’s definitely not hot water.” Richie hums, only half-listening, excited for Eddie to keep his promise. Right on cue, Eddie shuts off the lights and hops inside.

“Babe, seriously, it’s 1 o’clock in the afternoon, I can see you perfectly fine even with the lights off and my eyeballs being broken. You do this every time,” Richie sighs, grinning as he grabs Eddie’s hand to steady him as he climbs in. “I’ve _seen_ you naked with the lights on. What’s so different about the shower?”

“I don’t… know,” Eddie says, embarrassed, fitting himself to the wall so no part of him touches Richie at all. “I guess it just makes it less… intimate.”

“If you’re asking me, it’s even _more_ intimate, considering I have to trust you not to let me brain myself,” Richie chuckles. “But whatever makes you comfy-womfy.”

“Ew,” Eddie laughs, and then hushes himself to a whisper. “We should be quiet. I’m sure your parents can hear us.”

“They’ve heard worse,” Richie smiles, lazy, swimming with endorphins after coming down from his panic attack.

“That’s still a bad excuse,” Eddie frowns, but allows Richie to crowd him against the wall, hands on either side of his head.

“You know, it was pretty hot when you held me down back there.”

“Yeah?” Eddie prompts, eyebrow raised. “I didn’t mean it to be.”

“Sometimes the sexiest things are accidental, my dear.” Richie ducks his head to brush the tip of his nose against the damp skin of Eddie’s neck. He can still hear it over the rushing water when Eddie inhales sharply. “Like that. All those little noises you make when I touch you, like you’re trying so hard to be quiet, but you just can’t. Like you feel so good, you wanna just—” He scrapes his teeth down the column of Eddie’s neck, high off the feeling of Eddie growing hard against his thigh, “—scream.”

“Richie,” Eddie whines, squirming against him. “Do something.”

“Do what, sugar? I thought you were going to get on your knees for me.” Richie steps back, in that special sweet spot in his vision where he can see Eddie clearly. He gestures to the floor of the tub. “Be my guest.”

“I don’t like it when you get cocky,” Eddie glares, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, going fuzzy again. “Huge turn-off.” Richie shuffles forward, only slightly so he can see Eddie again, but it makes him replace his staunch frown with a grin he can barely fight.

“I didn’t know that. I thought you loved my _cock_ -iness. Hmm. I guess I’ll just have to beg, then.”

Eddie grins, huge and sunny. “I wouldn’t be opposed to that.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, huh?” Richie laughs, head thrown back, big and loud and completely unashamed. Eddie doesn’t even shush him. It’s disarming sometimes how Eddie can bring this out in him again, the shamelessness. He used to feel it all the time, used to be cool under pressure and suave as all hell. Richie was no geek, even if he looked like one. But ever since Pennywise, since the fight(s) with Bill, since 1989, he’s felt off-kilter, like something has grabbed his brain and squeezed it, and now there’s nothing left of him but illness. He feels _sick_ and he fucking _hates it._ He misses the days where he felt like the coolest person in the room, even if he wasn’t.

But with Eddie, he’s always the coolest person, especially when he isn’t, and that’s enough sometimes to forget the sickness that grows inside him, ignore the malignant shadows that lurk beneath his Voices and Masks. Even if he never gets back to the days when he wasn’t broken, at least he still has Eddie to make him feel like it doesn’t matter whether he’s whole or not.


	12. March, 1994

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings in this chapter specifically for: thoughts of self-harm, drug abuse, & suicide, and severe symptoms due to undiagnosed mental illness. stay safe babies

_The only reason not to go fucking around is nothing_   
_Nothing is the only reason not to mess everything up_   
_The only reason not to go fucking around is nothing_   
_Nothing is the only thing worth keeping my feet on the ground for_   
  
_I wanna hold nothing by the hand_  
_Stare into the eyes of one who understands_  
_That I am staring at nothing_  
_We wear matching wedding bands_  
_Golden circles around nothing_

—Nothing, The Blow

 

Richie is very rarely paying attention to the world around him.

Sometimes, it’s because the world is so _exciting_ and _vast_ that he finds himself distracted by anything and everything. Other times, this distraction is borne out of anhedonia, a bone-deep sort of apathy that is only ever carved out and replaced with blinding mania. Richie isn’t sure he’s a person outside of his broken brain.

Well, almost never. He knows he’s real right now, but only because he’s driving down the back roads of Derry in the dead of night with all four windows down in 35 degree weather going 85 miles per hour.

He knows what Eddie would say if he knew that Richie does this more often than he’ll ever admit to: _if you die, I’ll kill you._ He’s said it before, many times. While grabbing tightly onto his arm before going into Neibolt, laying in the grass after he found out about how Richie is almost always thinking about offing himself, after his car accident last February. The latter is why he hopes nobody ever finds out about these late-night escapades in the pursuit of reality. They’ll think he’s under the influence, or manic, or doing it on purpose, or whatever dumbass things everyone—including his own darling Eds—already believes about him.

Okay, so maybe Richie is a little angry, too. Manic (they’d be right about that one, God forbid he ever admit it), pissed off and alone is a very bad combo for him, but he doesn’t really care. He _wants_ to care, he swears he does, but lately, caring has been so fucking _difficult,_ and he can’t find the decency to try any longer.

He knows his family and friends care about him; he isn’t stupid. No, Richie is very far from stupid. The problem is that everybody else thinks he is. His teachers, the minuscule police force in town, his friends, his sister, even his parents tease him about it. _Lots_ of people tease him about it actually, people that Richie _doesn’t_ trust like he does the Losers and his family—people like Sonia Kaspbrak and Greta Bowie and Officer Nell. The latter is a dumbass, maybe even more so than the former two, especially considering the cops will probably never know the extent of how much they've missed, how much has happened right under their huge fucking noses. They actually think he's more of a danger than any of the other evil things and people that have lived in this town. Richie's been labeled  _stupid_  and _dangerous_  by so many people for so long that he’s begun to think everyone genuinely believes he’s some vapid, brain-dead moron just because he cracks a few jokes every now and then. It’s fucking infuriating. 

Well, almost everyone. Eddie doesn’t think that. In fact, one of the only things Eddie has no issue sparing compliments for him on is his intellect. He makes jokes about it with the best of them, sure, but he will still go on tirades about Richie’s intelligence when someone _else_ mocks him about it, even the Losers. Him and Bev once got into a tiff about whether or not the moon landing was real (which Richie was only denying in the hopes of pissing her off; he never said he was a saint), and when Bev asked Eddie to weigh in, he told her without looking up from his book, “I wasn’t really listening, but I’m sure Richie’s right.” Her insistence that conspiracy theories are all hearsay went unheard with Richie planting loud, wet kisses all over Eddie’s face in response. All he did in response was sigh harshly and attempt to keep reading over top of Richie’s head.

Shit, Richie fucking loves Eddie.

Eddie’s the type of boy you could crash a car over. The problem is, Eddie’s also the type of boy who would kill you for crashing a car over him if the road doesn’t get to you first.

So, with great reluctance and wanting a gold fucking medal or something for it, he takes his foot off the gas. He’s almost annoyed that one thought about Eddie could give him something that’s worth not dying over. Like, who does Eddie think he is, giving Richie the will to live? Honestly, the audacity. The dude has some fucking nerve.

His mother’s car is old—like, 1978 old—and it doesn’t enjoy going over 50, but with the way Richie pushes the old gal, he thinks maybe she’ll eject him from the car herself. She never has, but the engine sputters gratefully every time he eases up on these crazed crusades to find something to die over. _Deforestation! Ronald Reagan! The AIDS crisis! Homophobes! Racists! Flat-earthers! Holocaust deniers! You can’t even kill yourself, Trashmouth!_ But every time he finds a good enough tree to crash into, something stops him. A little voice—an angry little voice that has fiery red curls as tight as a corkscrew, an adorably staunch frown, and a stutter, telling him, _Fuck you for wanting to llll-l-leave us, Richie! Don’t you fucking dare!_

So he doesn’t. He drives back home, quietly pulls up the garage door, and backs the car in with minimal scratches to the chrome bumper when he accidentally hits the trash can. He trudges back up to bed, feeling the downswing of this episode so strongly his head is pulsing with it, and doesn’t tell anyone he still wants to die. It doesn’t matter anyway; this is nothing new. He always wants to die. He’s always, always itching to die.

When he’s manic, he wants to live only to spite the motherfuckers who dare try to convince themselves Richie’s lesser than they are. But when he’s depressed? The only motherfucker he has any semblance of emotion towards one way or the other isn’t allowed to hold his hand in public. And damn, if that isn’t an excellent reason to run his life into the ground, he doesn't know what is.

He wants to sleep, but he can’t due to the adrenaline rush from the ebbing mania. Or, maybe he just doesn’t want to. Maybe this is a better way to harm himself, a more palatable way. Because now that he and Eddie are sleeping together, he’d notice if Richie tried to hurt himself. He’d see burns on his elbow from his trusty zippo, or the marks on the insides of his thighs he desperately wants to carve. USELESS, they’d say. POWERLESS, JUST LIKE YOU.

He doesn’t. He stifles those urges and hides them in the same place he has to keep the urge to hold Eddie's hand in the light. Instead, he hurts himself in less obvious ways, like not eating for three days under the guise of being too distracted, or going to school on less than an hour of sleep and jones the subject away when his friends ask him if he’s okay.

He’s not, but it’s not like they care anyway. They’ve all got better shit to worry about than poor little sick-in-the-head Trashmouth Tozier.

Maybe he hides this shit from Eddie because of that, because if he knew how shitty Richie feels every single day, he’d call him _sick._ Worse than that, he’d call him sick, and then leave, because Eddie can’t handle sick, and Richie doesn’t want him to have to stomach it anyway—stomach _him—_ for his own selfish benefit. That isn’t what being in a relationship is all about. _Balance,_ Eddie told him, _communication and balance._ Eddie has to be getting as much out of it as Richie is, although he isn’t entirely sure that’s even possible. Still, he has to try. Eddie deserves whatever energy he has left to spare.

Caring is difficult, but Eddie makes caring about him easy, hence the crux of the issue.

The undeniable truth of Richie's steadily declining mental health is something he's violently ignoring, and for Eddie, the truth of what they really are to each other is as well. _Not your boyfriend, don’t call me Eds—_ Eddie pushes away any inclination that they could be what they are to each other because that would make it real. Richie does not ignore that; he refuses to. He is almost hedonistic in the ways he feeds into both of them. He takes every mile per hour over the speed limit, every time he ‘accidentally’ slips with the knife whilst cutting vegetables, every hit from Bev’s spliffs, takes every look and touch and word from Eddie, and feeds it all to the growing void in his heart, hoping to quiet it.

He craves the release something harder would bring him, something _better_ like cocaine or heroin; he knows it would close the void up for good. He just knows it. He nearly allowed himself to succumb to that Voice in his head telling him so last Friday at a party on the outskirts of town. Eddie won’t go to them anymore; he tried once, but they freak him out in a way that they don’t for Richie. The chaos in those dirty houses quiets the constant discontent inside him. But Eddie is so, so good at plugging up the void himself and filling it with light, and Richie can't do that to him, can’t feed his sanity to the void for a shot at quieting the Voices.

Eddie is a temporary fix just like marijuana was and like anything harder would be. But shit, he's the best fix on earth.

Sometimes, Richie feels like he’s genuinely addicted to Eddie way more so than he is to chasing some brief high—the way Eddie laughs at all his jokes, the way he pushes and pulls simultaneously, the way he touches and talks and tastes. Richie can't ever get enough of him, wants him always, wants to spend the rest of forever with that fiery little asshole. But Richie continuously asks him to do just that knowing full well he’ll say no because that’s what Richie thinks he deserves: loneliness.

Eddie’s rejection is for both their benefits—for balance; Eddie so that he can grow into the person he deserves to be outside of Derry, and Richie because he doesn’t deserve Eddie outside of the confines of their provincial, godless town. He doesn’t deserve happiness, but Eddie does, so he will continue to force a forever type of union on him until he cracks and finally pushes Richie away for good. Richie’s honestly shocked he hasn’t yet. (And, though he’d never admit it willingly, he adores being able to truly say what he wants completely unabashedly for once, no holds barred. Being able to tell Eddie that he wants him to come to California with him lightens his load a little bit. It’s selfish, but he loves how gentle Eddie gets whenever it’s brought up. A little like pity, and a little like worship. It’s a heady combo.)

His parents love him, his friends love him, Eddie loves him—Richie _knows_ he does, regardless of if he ever says it or not—but it’s still not enough to convince him he isn’t somebody born to die. The sickest, saddest, most shame-filled parts of him hope that without Eddie around to give him a reason to live, he’ll finally find a way to eventually fulfill that prophecy.


	13. May, 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> when we last left our hero, his self hatred was getting the best of him, and was growing more and more mentally unwell with each passing day. will he get worse? will he get better? neither? both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey. so it's been three months. i fucked up. pls take this 16k chapter as penance. i love u.

_If heaven and hell decide that they both are satisfied_  
_And illuminate the no's on their vacancy signs_  
_If there's no one beside you when your soul embarks  
Then I'll follow you into the dark_

—I Will Follow You Into the Dark, Death Cab for Cutie

 

The night of the senior prom in 1994, five secrets are revealed. Four of them, in Richie’s opinion, should’ve stayed secrets. However, only one of them is remembered by all privy parties in the light of day.

The first secret comes out the moment Beverly Marsh steps through the door—at least, sort of.

There’s something funny that happens when a group of friends becomes so nuclear that they eventually realize they have no friends outside of it: they become even smaller. By the time most of them have turned 18, this particular phenomenon has occurred within the Losers’ Club. Richie has (mostly) stopped going to the parties thrown on the outskirts of town; Mike has given up trying to become chummy with anyone else in Derry, knowing he’s already befriended all the people in their town who aren’t racist pricks; Bill has become a bit of a shut-in since 1989, and the Losers are really the only people who can get him out of the house at all; Eddie spends most of his time with Richie (in secret) or with the group (much to the chagrin of his mother, who has seemingly made her leash on him even tighter with college encroaching); Ben never seemed to have much of an interest in befriending anyone that wasn’t the Losers anyway, and when his aunt told him a month back that she’s being transferred to Chicago, whatever little interest he had in expanding their circle completely disappeared.

And then there’s Bev.

Bev has always been a wild card in Richie’s eyes. She told him a year or two ago that she thinks the two of them understand each other best out of anyone in their group—not out of any specific shared trauma outside of what they all shared in 1989, just based on personality alone. She said, and he quotes, “You just get me, Trashmouth. I don’t know how else to say it.” Despite this, not even he can really zero in on why she does most of what she does, even after all this time spent as her self-proclaimed best friend.

So when they have their Combination Goodbye-Ben-Farm-Prom, and Bev brings a girl none of them have ever met aside from in passing at school and an unopened bottle of Rebel Yell, even Richie is shocked.

They’re all (sans Eddie) packed into the sad remains of the Artist Formerly Known As _Chez Vrai,_ which is now just a shell of its former glory, merely a landing covered in old hay and four walls. The storm that pelted Derry’s streets in December of 1993 caved in the roof of the barn, rendering it unusable, even just as a place to store hay. However, it hasn’t rained in a few weeks, and the minimal electric is still hooked up to the building because Will Hanlon didn’t want to go through the trouble of digging it up out of the ground, so the Losers all band together to drag what once furnished their safe haven out from the Hanlon’s storage shed for one last hurrah. It’s certainly cheaper than Prom would’ve been, which only Bill, Richie, and Stan could’ve afforded/been allowed to attend anyway, and the three of them would much rather be with their friends than in some sweaty auditorium packed with a bunch of kids who hate them.

So they’re at _Chez Vrai_ instead, and it’s already way better than any stupid Derry Senior Prom would’ve been.

They’ve been setting up all weekend, and Bev feigned an obviously fake sickness to get out of it, promising she’d see them all Saturday night. Richie figured she was either a) lazy, or b) dealing with Dad Stuff. On the off-chance it was the latter, he politely (and painfully) kept his mouth shut in respect of the bullshit he knows she still goes through with it. However, when she walks in 35 minutes late with her arm slung around a pretty stranger, Richie realizes she was probably dealing with a _different_ type of bullshit, and regrets the kindness of his heart for having not given her shit for it.

Before Richie can say a word though, Bev waves the bottle around, the contents sloshing, and her date seems unphased by the boys’ shocked expressions. If anything, her smirk deepens. Richie grins. Tonight is going to be _fun._ “You guys gonna stop catching flies and do some shots, or are me and Sam gonna have to drink this shit by ourselves?”

They all suddenly spring into action, nodding and mumbling loudly in assent. Bill looks more shocked than any of them, unable to form a single coherent goddamn sentence with the force of his stuttering, so Richie jumps in with, “It would be our honor, fair maidens.” As Stan begins rationing out shots in red solo cups (all they have to work with), Richie addresses Sam, bowing dramatically and lifting his hand. “I don’t think we’ve been formally acquainted, m’lady. I’m Mistress Marsh’s humble—”

“And dramatic.”

“—and dramatic servant, Richard P. Tozier.”

Sam assesses him with a sort of calculated severity that makes his skin crawl a bit, but Richie enjoys the limelight far more than his anxiety convinces him of, so he persists past the uncomfortability. He takes a moment to appreciate her smudged mascara, and dramatic eye makeup (electric blue) that doesn’t at all match her dress (a pastel tangerine color), her shoes (bright green chucks), or the giant blazer she's wearing on top of it all (charcoal grey and plaid). Somehow, she still manages to look put-together. Perhaps it's the unwavering confidence she wears like a second skin, like she walked out of the womb having seen it all before. Whatever it is, Richie envies her. He thinks he’d like to dress something like this if he were allowed to. Instead, he’s wearing a rented tux and a hot pink floral tie with a peony plucked fresh from Miss Jessica Hanlon’s garden stuck in his lapel.

Honestly, he doesn’t think he looks half-bad at all. He feels a hell of a lot better about this outfit than he did that awful powder blue suit his mom rented him for Stan’s bar mitzvah. Mags wasn’t too keen on shelving out a ton of cash renting a suit barely anyone would see for this prom, but he managed to convince her to at least rent something higher-end, promising that he'd keep it clean for the security deposit, that he'd pay for half, and appealing to the romantic in her by tacking on that he _really_ wants to impress Eddie _(and_ that he’d vacuum the house every week until he moves to California in August. Richie’s the king of making offers that are hard to refuse).

So, he doesn’t look _bad._ But with the suit jacket Beverly’s wearing, tailored tight around her waist and tapering at her hips and a fluffy dress shirt fit more for a pirate king than a lady, he’s perhaps a little jealous. It feels cruel that Bev can wear a suit to their prom, but Richie can’t wear a dress. He imagines even his best friends would’ve probably had a few unkind words to say about that. Perhaps even Eddie.

He shakes the thought off with a plastic grin as Sam finally takes his hand, shaking it. “Samantha Price. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Tozier. I’ve heard _so_ much about you.”

“All lies, I’m sure,” he says, pressing a light kiss to her knuckles before releasing her hand and straightening back up. She doesn’t look embarrassed by the display, only slightly amused. Bev, however, looks like she might explode from embarrassment at any moment. Richie flashes her a charming grin before returning his attention back to Sam. “Quite unfortunately, I’ve heard absolutely _nothing_ about you.”

“Oh, is that so, Bev?” Sam smirks, turning to raise an eyebrow at her… friend? Date? Whatever-the-fuck? Seriously, is Bev gonna drop the bomb on what the fuck is going on anytime soon, or are they all going to have to suffer in stuttering confusion all night? “You embarrassed of me?”

“Of you? Please,” Bev scoffs, but her blush is dark enough to match her lipstick. She's practically preening under this cool-as-ice mystery girl’s attention. Substantially the most telling evidence of the night. She clears her throat, cheeks burning. “Uris, you finished pourin’ ‘em out yet? We’re dying of thirst. Truly parched, my dear friend. Dehydrating in this Derry summer heat.”

“Hold your horses, Bev, jeez,” Stan snorts, shaking his head as he finishes the final cup. There’s eight lined up, and as everyone takes one, leaving one left over, he turns to Richie. “Kaspbrak’s on his way, yeah?”

“He should be,” Richie frowns, puzzled by the fact that it’s been at least 40 minutes since their little prom was supposed to begin and Eddie still hasn’t shown up. He’s practically annoyingly punctual, even to events that barely matter at all. Worst of all, though, Richie hadn’t even noticed. “He’ll be here,” he nods, feigning confidence despite feeling like he's wading through uncharted waters. “We should wait for him to do the first toast of the night, though. He’d be pissed if we didn’t.”

“How would he even know?” Bev asks, raising an eyebrow and entice him with a charming grin of her own. Richie just levels her a look.

“He’s Eddie. He’ll know.”

“Ugh,” Bev groans. “Fine. But we’re _at least_ gonna dance in the meantime. C’mon, Benny the Jet, you’re up to bat first. Tozier, work your magic.”

Richie smiles, big and cheesy and wide, and calls out, _“Gooooood morning, Vietnam!”,_ the Announcer in him always ready and waiting. He’s grinning like mad as he skips over to the stereo plugged into the extension cord and shuffles through the tapes he and Ben made for their parties at _Chez Vrai._ He knows this is probably the final time they’ll be able to use them. He’s resolutely ignoring that fact.

“It’s 6:48 PM in the shithole capital of the world, our very own Derry, Maine, and you know what that means: it’s time to get our groove thangs on. Yes, while we’re all waiting on the absolutely _adorable_ Edsman Assbrak to finally show up and make good on his name, I’d like to kick things off for a pairing nearly as adorable Eds himself to cut a rug on the dance-rug. In honor of the lady in this handsome not-couple, this is the ever-riotous Runaways with Ch-Ch-Ch-‘Cherry Bomb’!”

By the time he’s finished his diatribe, he has the right tape loaded up, and presses PLAY with a flourish he thinks would’ve probably made Georgie laugh if he were here.

Richie startles for a moment, watching his friends begin to dance with a dislocated sort of horror; he honestly doesn’t remember the last time he thought about Georgie Denbrough. The incendiary fight with Bill had certainly sparked something white-hot and brutal to touch, the memory of Georgie being dragged to the surface in a body bag—but before that? He isn’t sure. And since then, not once. Richie feels guilty, pained while he watches Bill try his hardest to seem unphased by Bev’s date asking if he’d like to join her and Ben in a dance. Richie’s positive Bill must think about his little brother every day—he knows he would if the roles were reversed. They haven’t spoken about Georgie in almost a year, but Richie was once Bill’s right-hand man; he likes to think, despite their differences, he still is. Richie loved Georgie, too. He had a nickname for him, once upon a time—one that nobody else used, not even Bill. He can’t remember it anymore.

Fuck, he needs a drink.

He walks over to where the Rebel Yell has been abandoned on the only table in the building, and begins mixing himself a drink. Half homemade lemonade, half bourbon. He’s pretty much positive it’s going to be bad, but he figures if he remembers more than two-thirds of this night tomorrow morning, it’ll be a bust anyway. He begins chugging it, needing to plug his nose to get it down, but only has three gulps down the hatch when someone clears their throat behind him. Richie whips around, and then staggers back, his drink sloshing and spilling a bit on the folded corner of his sleeve. Sorry about that security deposit, Mom.

“Hey, stranger. Getting started without me, I see. Quite rude.”

Predictably, Richie’s first thought is that Eddie looks absolutely arrestingly gorgeous—even more gorgeous than he normally does. He’s wearing a sleek black tux with a baby blue tie that lights up the brown specks in his eyes beautifully. Richie sighs, moonstruck. Always his favorite color. His second thought, he vocalizes: “You haven’t been this late to something since my mom caught you leaving the house with a hickey on your neck and you had to wait for Lucy to call back so she would tell us where her concealer was.”

“Okay, first of all, fuck you, that was _entirely_ your fault,” Eddie glares, pointing at Richie menacingly as he walks closer. “And secondly, being late tonight wasn’t my fault either.”

“Oh, yeah? Whose was it then? You said you wanted your mom to drive you over since you said me picking you up would be… what was it?”

“Bad luck. I stand by that.” Having forgotten he was even still holding it, becoming overwhelmed by the scent of whatever cologne Eddie put on for the event, Eddie is able to pluck the cup from Richie’s hand and take a grateful sip. He pulls it away with a disgusted grimace, and once he finally swallows, he ends up hacking out a cough. “What the fuck is in that thing, boat fuel?”

 _“EDDIE!”_ Bev shrieks, cutting off Richie’s response as she runs over in bare feet, apparently having already abandoned her heels. Richie thinks she probably needed all the help she could get in the height department, but he isn’t able to make that crack because she’s crushing Eddie in a hug and gushing about how handsome he looks. Richie smiles softly as she introduces Eddie to her Sam. Eddie is predictably very polite, complimenting Sam’s makeup. Sam shoots him a dazzling, genuine smile that makes _Richie_ a little weak in the knees. Poor Bev sways in her spot and leans against Richie, who does a piss-poor job at holding them both up as they go stumbling.

“So, Eddie,” Sam says, still grinning (and politely ignoring the heap of Bev and Richie trying to compose themselves) as the rest of their friends gather round to greet Eddie, “are you a traditionally fashionably late sort of fella?”

“Ha! Hardly,” Eddie snorts, shaking his head. “No, I, uh…” He glances at Richie, then away. “I had to walk.”

“Woah, Eds, that’s over a mile! C’mon, come sit.” Richie grabs a folding chair from around the table with their abandoned shots still poured, and steers him by the shoulders into the seat. “I thought I told you I’d pick you up! You stubborn li’l shit.”

“Not stubborn,” Eddie glares up at him. “I didn’t know I’d be walking ‘til y’all were already all here.”

“Oh,” Bill says softly, placing his hand gently on Eddie’s upper arm. He immediately relaxes; Richie hadn’t even noticed Eddie had been so tense in the first place. His cheeks burn with embarrassment; he’s really off his boyfriend-game tonight. “Was it…?”

“Mmm,” Eddie nods. “Yeah, Ma decided she wasn’t too keen on me coming after all. She said she’d been more than willing to shelve out the cash for the school prom where there’d be ‘appropriate supervision’ and everything.” Eddie does a crude mockery of his mom’s voice, pulling a face to go along with it, and it makes everyone laugh. Richie knew he loved him for a reason.

“She said it was either Derry High Prom, or none at all. I said none of at all, because it’s _Derry High Prom,_ but apparently prom is ‘a night to remember’ or some reliving-her-youth horseshit, plus I already saved up to rent the suit. So she made some calls, got me a ticket last minute, and drove me there. Walked me in and everything to make sure I’d actually go, which Greta had a field day yucking it up with the Broadway Girls about. Had to stay ten minutes while everyone laughed until she bailed. I immediately booked it here, but it’s not like the farm is close by.”

“Wow,” Stan says flatly, “your ma’s a real piece of shit, huh.”

“Yep,” Eddie says, seemingly unfazed. It’s the casual manner in which he seems genuinely disaffected by the whole thing that worries Richie. But surrounded by all their friends (plus Samantha, a virtual stranger who has no idea they’re even together), he can’t comfort Eddie the way he’s become accustomed to, so he stays silent, hands twitching by his sides as he maintains an appropriate distance between them. He feels out of place and useless. Out of all the lies he’s ever told, not being able to pull Eddie into his lap and knead his fingertips into his back strangely feels like the biggest. “It’s fine. I just need a drink. Anyone bring anything?”

“Oh! The _shots,”_ Bev gasps dramatically, grabbing the back of Eddie’s chair and dragging it across the floor, much to Eddie’s loudly stated chagrin. Once they’re all surrounding the table again, Richie stands up on the only other folding chair at the table with his shot raised high in the air.

“Friends, gentlebitches, countrybastards, lend me your dicks! Tonight, we dance! Tonight, we party! Tonight, we say goodbye to the shackles of childhood, and say hello to the freedom of buying dirty mags at the gas station and no longer needing to steal cigs! Tonight, we enter adulthood! To our childhoods; may they always stay in the shitty, shitty past!”

“And to love,” Beverly says, her tone more brave than she looks, eyes shifting nervously.

“Yes, Bev,” Bill smiles, tipping his shot towards her. “Tuh-to love, indeed.”

“To love!” They all repeat, and then down the shots. Ben and Sam are the only ones who manage to not wince at the taste. They high-five, and mock the rest of them for being too weak to keep up with them. Bev decides to challenge that, pouring another shot and gulping it down without wincing this time. Everybody claps. Eddie rates it 3.5 out of five stars. Bev says that’s crazy. Richie stops listening in favor of staring at Eddie.

The next hour goes similarly; they talk, they laugh, they dance, they drink, Richie stares at Eddie. Honestly, it’s like every other night spent with the Losers, just with fancier attire. But they all know this is their last hurrah; at least for one of them. This weekend, Ben Hanscom is moving to Chicago. This weekend, the Losers’ Club will lose a vital member. This weekend, the Losers’ Club will officially cease to exist.

None of them are admitting that now, though. For now, they dance and drink and party like it’s 1999.

Perhaps it’s the rose-colored nostalgia blanketing the whole evening, but it isn’t until a little over an hour after Eddie arrives that Richie finally catches up with how drunk everybody has gotten; most especially Ben and Eddie. Ben is swaying with his eyes closed, despite being firmly planted in the La-Z-Boy, and Eddie is practically grinding on Richie trying to get his attention. Once Richie is finished sending Mike (the least drunk of them all aside from Richie himself) to go over and check on Ben, Richie’s able to turn his full attention on Eddie who’s now spinning in circles around Richie while laughing loudly.

“Man, Eds, you sure are randy tonight,” Richie laughs, clutching one of Eddie’s hands tightly so he doesn’t topple them both over once the spinning stops and he starts swaying dangerously. All night, Eddie has been swinging wildly from rowdy to emotional to overexcited, and back again in some sort of mind-bending loop. Richie never knows what’s coming until it’s already arrived, which has left his head spinning a bit. Eddie almost always leaves Richie’s head spinning, but this is different. Usually, Richie can predict Eddie’s moods, at least generally, especially if he can get a good look at his eyes. Usually, Eddie isn’t so public with their touches. Usually, when there’s alcohol involved, Richie is the drunkest of them all. However, tonight, there’s no mistaking Eddie for the most inebriated person in the room, even over Ben.

It's overwhelming. It's confusing. It's worrying.

For a few minutes, Eddie’s dancing is totally uncoordinated and utterly endearing. Richie holds his hands tightly so as to keep him upright, and indulges him like he always wants to. But then the song changes, and Eddie’s silly dancing quickly turns into something else entirely. His drunken state is no longer sweet and cloying, but serrated. Richie feels like with one wrong move, he could fly right off the roof and—

The song coming from the radio is ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’. It’s a family favorite. All of his friends love this song. Richie wants to love this song, too. He never had. It only ever serves to drag him back down into the sewers. Eddie likes this song. He always has. He doesn’t choose to play it when they’re together, but if it comes on the radio when they’re with the Losers at the Barrens, he always sings along. He knows every word. When Beverly pulls him up to dance in the summer sun, he laughs, and grins like a forest fire, and sings along.

Always, always, always.

Right now is no different. He is dancing and laughing and grinning like a forest fire. He is singing along. It’s like they’re at Barrens, except they’re not at the Barrens. _Mouth is alive with juices like wine, I’m on the hunt, I’m after you._ Richie tries to smile. He can’t. He feels like a ventriloquist dummy, like the thing he always wanted to control is now controlling him. _WHAT A LAUGH! GET YOUR CHUCKS, RICHIE, YOU’RE THE FIRST KILL OF THE NIGHT!_

Eddie is wrapped tightly around Richie like a noose, using him as much for physical support as he uses him for everything else. Richie’s spine is a lightning rod, a conductor of kinetic energy, even if it hurts. He can tell Eddie’s turned on by the way his breathing’s gone heavy. Richie kind of wants to cry. He doesn’t. He never does.

Richie never told Eddie about the fight with Bill— _just chill with the PDA._ He didn’t want anything between them to change, or give Bill any more reasons to hate him. Richie wants to relish in the kind of romantic contact every other young couple in their town are displaying right now in the auditorium of the high school across town. He wants to dance with his boyfriend to a nice song and not be terrified of the consequences. But Richie isn’t dancing with his boyfriend to a nice song, he’s dancing with a werewolf to a song that makes him want to try for death a third, fourth, thousandth time.

Richie can’t stop flicking his eyes to Bill across the barn, checking to see if he’ll sweep in like the knight in shining armor he always wants to be and hand Eddie a bottle of water, or change the song, or look at them with an expression that’s sour, or disgusted, or pitying, or, or, or—

“Hey,” Richie chuckles nervously, coming back to himself briefly. _I howl and I whine, I’m after you._ He attempts to remove Eddie’s jellied limbs from where they’re wrapped tight around his shoulders and hips like a vice. It isn’t hard—Eddie’s body is malleable like a rag doll’s right now despite his tight grip; a puppet with cut strings. A ventriloquist dummy. Something Richie can control. Richie’s stomach leadens, churns. He feels nauseous enough that he thinks he might vomit. Lightheaded. Any second now, he’ll float. Any second. “Can hardly breathe with you squeezin’ me like that, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie scoffs, trying to extricate himself from Richie on his own, but he trips them both and they land hard on the couch. Richie lets out a quiet, breathy laugh, barely hearing the radio anymore. Eddie is all he can see. Always, always, always. But before Richie can process anything more, Eddie’s pushing Richie away to stand back up on shaking legs; sour, disgusted, pitying. “Don’ call me that.”

Usually, that phrase is laced with a kind smile, or a private touch, and the refusal doesn’t sound like anything except _I love you._ But right now, Eddie’s disgusted expression and aggressive demeanor doesn’t make it sound like that at all. It’s awful. It’s terrifying. It’s—

Richie is fine with Eddie’s denial of what they really are to each other. It keeps them both safe, keeps them from flying too close to the face of the sun. But right now, it hurts like a gaping wound. It feels like Eddie is embarrassed to know him at all, like he’s something wholly unlikable. It’s been a year and a half of kissing and hugging and fucking and _feeling._ How long is it gonna take? Richie isn’t sure how much more he can stand.

All the hiding, the sneaking around, it might be easier to take if Richie knew inarguably that Eddie loved him. But Eddie won’t even award him that much. Maybe Richie doesn’t even deserve that much.

Eddie is trying to walk away from Richie, drunkenly stumbling across the rug, and Richie can physically feel everyone’s eyes turn from their individual conversations to the two of them like they’re searing into his skin, cutting bone. Putting on a show. Actors on a stage. Usually, Richie craves attention, thrives on it, needs it like air. Right now, it aches like their eyes are pressing hard into an old wound. His arm throbs. He glances up at where the ceiling used to be, once strung up with pretty twinkling lights. False stars. Instead of a roof to jump off of, now it’s just full dark, no stars. He stands up and rushes over to keep Eddie upright, his arms coming around his waist despite everyone’s eyes on them.

_The rest of us get left out of your weird relationship._

“Careful, Eds, let me help—”

“I don’t _want_ your help,” Eddie sneers, ripping himself out of Richie's grasp like he's charing Eddie’s skin. _You ruined us Richie, that’s what happened._ “I don’t _want you_ at all, Trashmouth. What's it gonna take for you to _finally_ understand that?”

_YOU CAN’T EVEN KILL YOURSELF, TRASHMOUTH._

Later, Richie will think it was irrational—overdramatic, even—to collapse back onto the couch like he's the string-cut puppet after Eddie angrily grabs the bottle of bourbon, and storms out of _Chez Vrai_ into the ink black night. But his boyfriend used that same mocking tone everyone he's ever known has used to push him away with, the same one he uses nearly daily with himself, the one he trusted Eddie would never use. The one that says, _you're a worthless piece of shit, and I hope nobody remembers you._

It takes too long—anywhere from minutes to hours, he’ll never know—for Richie to realize he's surrounded by most of his friends, but when he does, the first words that tumble out of his mouth in a tangled rush are, “Who's with Eddie? Who went after Eddie? Is he safe, is he okay?”

“Mike did,” Bev answers, pushing Richie’s curls away from his clammy forehead. “He's okay. You're both okay.”

Richie shakes his head, both in refusal of Bev’s statement and to clear the angry, corrosive thoughts. He makes eye contact with her first, and gives her a sorry little smile. “I fucked up your date.”

Bev shrugs, ducking her head and muttering, “You didn’t fuck up shit,” which is all the proof Richie needs to know his earlier assessment of the situation was right—Bev _is_ on a date. Despite the acid still rolling in his stomach, he smiles.

“I could if you wanted me to. Hey, Miss Samantha!” He calls out to the rest of the room, wherever Sam is probably giving Richie some much appreciated privacy. He ducks out from under Bev’s violent slapping. “Sammy Davis Jr.! Sam and Dave! Word on the street is that you and my sweet-’n’-sour Levvie haven’t had your first dance yet! Well, I do believe it’s my solemn duty as Designated DJ to find a fix for that.”

Richie runs over to the boombox, dodging Bev once more, and begins sifting through the tapes as he prattles on. “Yes, folks, the time of night has come to swing yer partner round ‘n’ round for the _sloooooow_ dance.” He grabs the tape with _GOD ONLY BLOWS_ scrawled on it, and puts it back down. He doesn’t think he could take that one right now. He keeps looking, trying to keep his breathing steady as he comes back to life. “That’s right, that’s right. Grab a guy, or grab a gal, we don't judge at the Losers’ Royale. Don’t you worry about feelin’ too queer up in here; our doors open to all sexual orientations, and possible pairs of pals. Oh, and here’s our dear friend Mikey, back from war! Tell us, Michael, how was it serving your country? You feel like a hero, stud?”

Mike laughs as he walks inside, shivering a bit and tugging at his jacket as he reaches down to ruffle Richie’s curls. “I always do, Trashmouth.”

“Hey, watch the merchandise! These outta-towners don’t gimme no respect, no respect at all!” Richie cries in his Italian Businessman in New York Voice, better known to himself (and himself exclusively, because as Richie said, _no respect at all)_ as Giovanni Ferrari.

Mike snorts and goes to join their friends in the mock-dance floor (just the Persian rug pulled into the middle of the room) as Richie spots the tape he’s been looking for towards the bottom of the pile. He finally, blessedly cuts off Duran Duran with a silent breath of relief. He pops the tape in, presses PLAY, and leans back against the wall, gazing up at the sky instead of over his friends. _Damn,_ he thinks, _I could sure as fuck use a cigarette or two right about now._

As he rummages around in his front pocket for his lighter and carton of Winstons, figuring he and Eddie probably aren’t going to be doing too much kissing tonight for it to matter much at all, he says, “This is Richie “The Dick” Tozier signing off with ‘Wild Horses’. I hope y’all have a magical night. Use protection on your dicks and on your hearts.”

He taps a cigarette out of the carton and sticks it between his lips, flicking the lighter on and sucking a grateful breath in the moment the end is lit. He blows it up, up, up as all his friends dance around them, paired off. Some silly, some not. Bev and Sam, Ben and Bill, Mike and Stan, all in varying degrees of sincerity. Bill is doing a crude imitation of a waltz with his two left feet, and Ben is following along just as delightedly clumsily. Richie almost smiles. He doesn’t.

Bev and Sam, off to the side and furthest away from everyone, are dancing far more fluidly than Bill and Ben, but it looks intimate somehow despite the rehearsed quality of it. Like they aren’t pay attention to the steps, only each other. Richie _does_ smile this time as he takes another drag. He busies himself in lining up tapes beside the stereo for the group to play next to give Bev and Sam a bit of privacy, avoiding any with Duran Duran on the tracklists.

By the time he finishes his first cigarette and the half-hearted organizing he’s been doing, he looks up as he lights another to find Mike and Stan dancing like they’re at a middle school dance and a chaperone’s ten feet away. They’re looking out to the ink-black-night nervously, terrified the way Eddie can be if he and Richie are anywhere but alone in Richie’s bedroom. Curious. Richie thinks about teasing them about it, but he clamps his mouth shut as the last second. There are no chaperones here—Will is inside, trusting them with what was once the cow house, and Richie isn’t about to bust anyone’s balls about personal space. Hell, he just fucked up his own, possibly permanently.

He blows out a cloud of smoke, looking out the open door of the barn and into the night, thinking for a moment he might find Eddie there. He doesn’t, but it had been a long shot anyway, and even if he had, he doesn’t know if he would’ve followed him into the dark.

When Richie was younger, following somebody into the dark meant certain death—and a desirable one at that. He _wanted_ to be the lancer who sacrificed himself for the greater good to save the hero, but death only ever managed to be a romantic fantasy he couldn’t quite achieve. He’s tried to find it before, but only ever got close enough to taste it two or three times. However, ever since the clown, death has been something of a fallacy, something he has no hope will ever come for him. He has dreams in which he dies—sometimes by the clown, sometimes not—and, though he’d never admit it, those are the best dreams he’s ever had. They make it easier to get through the day. If he can only ever die in his dreams, he supposes that’s better than nothing. At least they’re better than the ones where he watches his friends die. _Anything_ is better than that.

Sometimes, he thinks he’s cursed to watch the world around him come together while he gets left behind to fall apart on the sidelines. He has his acceptance letter to UCLA all mailed and shipped, but the more he thinks about it, the more nauseous he gets just by the idea of going to school for four more fucking years. He barely survived middle school, and high school has only been made survivable by the presences of his friends. In California, there is no Bev or Stan or Eddie, and there’s certainly no one like Bill who he can fight with, hurt and be hurt by, only to come back together stronger from it. His eyes find Bill and Ben stumbling on the rug, twirling and grinning, and Richie smiles, too. He stubs out his third cigarette on the floor of the barn, and takes out a fourth, standing up to face the darkness instead and lighting it up before the other has even finished smoldering.

Cigarettes are Richie’s favorite way of flipping off death. He thinks chipping away at the constant, ancient anxiety he feels, however briefly, is a fair price for an early death the surgeon general warns him of. It’s fine; he knows death probably won’t ever come for him anyway. No, he’s cursed to survive the horrors of the world despite the alarm bells in his head deafening him and begging for release. Invincible without any of the perks. It’s fine, he thinks, taking a long drag from the cig. He’s fine.

From his spot leaning up against the doorway, Richie looks out towards the Farmhouse. It’s a tall building, three stories, once housing Mike’s whole extended family. Now it only belongs to Jessica, Will, Leroy, and Mike himself; the rest of the Hanlons got tired of waiting for evil to tear them limb from limb. Richie can’t say he blames them. Three stories is a long drop, and he’s tired of waiting, too. He knows how to get up there; he’s done it before. Without even thinking, he starts walking towards the house. Someone’s awake on the second floor, but Richie could easily bypass the lit room to get to the attic. It’s a long drop. It’s high enough.

Finally, with the grinning moon high in the sky and dousing the world in silver safety, Richie spots a figure silhouetted and sitting up in the grass halfway between _Chez Vrai_ and the Farmhouse. Richie finally found where Eddie wandered off to. He sighs, taking one last drag from the cigarette before ditching it and crushing it in the dirt with the heel of his dress shoe. He doesn’t even debate for a moment like he thought he might’ve; he changes course from the long drop, and follows Eddie into the dark.

As he slowly ambles over to where Eddie is seated, hands buried deep in his pockets, he’s trying desperately to feel unafraid that Eddie might turn on him like he did before. He’s torn between fear and worry when he approaches the rancid stench of alcohol mixed with vomit. Richie spots a patch of sick 7 feet from where Eddie’s seated. He wonders if Eddie is awake enough to notice it; his head is pillowed on his knees and his arms are clenched tightly around them, holding tightly to the bottle of bourbon like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Richie sits between Eddie and the vomit just in case. Eddie turns to him sluggishly, but his eyes light up when they finally focus.

“Boyfriend!” Richie’s skin feels too-hot and too-tight the moment the foreign word falls from Eddie’s lips, but he doesn’t have time to process it before Eddie is pitching himself into Richie’s arms, the mostly-consumed bottle of bourbon hanging limply from one hand. It had been only a third of the way consumed the last time Richie saw it, and he frowns as he wraps one arm around Eddie’s waist to steady him and uses to other to deftly pluck the bottle from Eddie’s loose grip, setting it down on his other side and away from Eddie’s reach. He doesn’t even notice. “Hi, boyfriend!”

“Hiya, Eds,” Richie chuckles, trying to sound braver than he feels. He uses his Gay Cowboy Voice to toughen himself up. “You doin’ alright out here all by your lonesome? You need some special Western lovin’ to set you right?”

“Surrrre do, pard’ner!” Eddie slurs, giggling against the shell of Richie’s ear. “Missed you lots ‘n’ lots. I thought you mighta _forgotten_ n‘bout me.”

“I could never,” Richie gasps, scandalized. “How could I forget such a good lay as you!”

Eddie growls at him, pulling away to pout and glare. “Tell me you’d never forget me for other reasons, too, or I’m never layin’ you again.”

Richie smiles, mouth closed, the intensity of it making his cheeks dig uncomfortably against his glasses. He doesn't mind. Half his fear melts away into the dirt beneath them. “What other reasons are you looking for?”

“Uhhhh, I dunno,” Eddie shrugs, bashfully ducking his head. “Nev’rmind, now it seems like ‘m phishin’ or somethin’...”

“You can phish all you’d like, sweetheart,” Richie responds quietly, wrapping an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and pulling him flush against his side.

Eddie hums and presses his smile to the base of Richie’s throat, mumbling, “Like it when you call me that.”

“What; sweetheart?” Eddie nods, his smile growing. “Well, good, ‘cause I like calling you that.”

They’re quiet for a while as Richie watches the stars and Eddie breathes contentedly against the shell of Richie’s throat. There’s no better place to stargaze in all of Derry—maybe all the world—than the Hanlon farm. It’s far enough from the minimal ambient light the city of Derry gives off to plunge the whole world here into total darkness. Richie doesn’t mind the lack of sleep he gets when he comes over, late to bed from watching the stars and early to rise to feed the animals with Will and Mike.

Whenever Richie comes over, he always waits until Will goes to sleep before climbing onto the roof of the Farmhouse to smoke dope and watch the stars pass him by. He memorized the summer sky up there. He learned which roofs are meant for jumping off of and which ones aren’t up there. Mike has joined him up there before to talk late into the night about their futures and their pasts, passing a joint between them like it’s easy, like the world wouldn’t send Mike to jail for the rest of his life if he were caught with it. It was only few times, maybe four at the most, but being up on the roof with Mike in a dull haze of artificial comfort are some of the only times in Richie’s whole life where he can truly say he felt at peace. Strange to think he’s ever felt at peace on a rooftop. Strange to think that he didn’t jump off the Farmhouse roof when he had the chance.

Even with the anger and resentment still simmering quietly under his skin from how Eddie’s treated him tonight, he can’t help but feel that same peace sitting here with him. He thinks he could forgive Eddie of anything without even trying. He will always follow him into the dark, no matter the consequences. It’s a terrifying thought. It’s an unhealthy thought. It’s a wonderful thought.

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie whispers after a long while spent in the quiet.

“Not really,” Richie shrugs, mostly honest. He follows Cassiopeia with his eyes before admitting, “Maybe a little.”

“You should be. I’m mad at me,” Eddie sighs, cuddling in closer and wrapping his arms around Richie’s waist beneath his jacket. Richie shivers, feeling Eddie’s cold fingers press into his hip. He doesn’t do anything to shake them off, though he thinks perhaps he should. “I shouldn’t a’said all that, it wasn’t nice.” Richie simply hums in agreement, eyes still roaming the open sky. “I want you all the time,” Eddie whispers, amending what he spat back in the barn, but admitting it like it’s a shame-filled secret.

Richie smiles wistfully at the horizon line; he wants to believe Eddie will one day be unburdened, but that hope gets dimmer and dimmer every day. He doesn’t say that, though. He thinks the day he admits that aloud will be the day that all hope is gone forever.

“Hey, there’s your constellation,” Richie says in lieu of responding. “You wanna see?” Eddie nods, picking his head up to follow where Richie is pointing to see where Virgo is peeking out above the horizon.

“That guy?” Eddie tilts his head, swaying into Richie’s space to follow his finger a bit better. Eddie points, too, but his hand is moving too much for Richie to be able to tell if they’re seeing the same thing.

“Here.” Richie grabs Eddie’s shaking hand, tipping their heads together and guiding him with a steady gait to the constellation. “There you are, little star. See how your two feet are planted right on the horizon? Look how strong and steady you are up there.”

“Oh, I see me now!” Eddie squeals, giggling madly. “I found my constellation! Are you proud’a me?”

“Sure am, Eds. Congrats,” Richie grins, turning to look at him. Eddie’s smile is bright, rivaling the summer sun, and Richie feels warmer just from being near him. The dew in the grass, forgotten. The words Eddie used to cut and bruise, forgotten. All else but this moment, this wonder, this silver safety, forgotten. Eddie turns to him, probably to make sure Richie is actually proud like he said, and he smiles even wider than before when he catches sight of Richie’s expression. It dims just as quickly as it came though, and he looks worried now, nervous, his eyes suddenly flooding with tears.

“What’s wrong, sweet thing?” Richie asks, and Eddie pitches himself into his arms once again, letting out a loud, sharp sob.

“I was so _mean_ to you.”

“Oh no,” Richie laughs, letting his fingers dance over the knobs of Eddie’s spine in hopes of calming him down. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not._ You’re my _boyfriend_ and I was _mean_ to you at our _prom._ And in front of all our friends! And New Sam! You should never, ever forgive me, not in a million-bajillion years. You should throw me on a barge with all the murderers and mean people and sail me out to sea forever and ever. You should lock me in a basement with Pennywise, and let that bastard go to town! You should—”

“Okay, this seems like a _gross_ over-reaction, honey, and that’s coming from me.” Richie falls silent as he continues to pet Eddie’s back, letting him get the tears out of his system, before he says, “Plus, that wouldn’t be very fair to me, locking you away or sending you out to sea where I’ll never be able to get to you. I like you far too much for that.”

“You shouldn’t,” Eddie wails, clutching tighter onto Richie’s jacket. Tears stain the collar. Seriously, his poor mom and that security deposit are taking a major hit tonight. “I’m horrible to you. I can’t even call you my boyfriend when I feel normal. I dunno why you put up with me.”

“Because you’re my best friend above everything else, Eds. I love putting up with you.”

Eddie sniffs harshly and pulls away, keeping his arms looped around Richie’s shoulders. “You do?”

Richie cups Eddie’s cheeks, thumbing away his tears, and nods, chuckling quietly. “Of course I do. More than anything.”

“But I’m _mean,”_ Eddie whispers conspiratorially, like it’s a secret he’s been somehow keeping from Richie all these years.

Richie laughs loudly, reeling Eddie back in so he’s now seated in his lap, legs crossed behind Richie’s back. He cups the back of Eddie’s head, running his fingers through his hair not to calm him down anymore, but just because he wants to. “Maybe a little. But I still wouldn’t change a thing about you.”

“That’s silly,” Eddie huffs indignantly, balling his fists up in Richie’s jacket once again. “I’ve got a million things wrong with me you should change. A million- _bajillion,_ actually.”

“Nope, _”_ Richie says, popping the _p._

“Not even if you had a magic wand, or a special genie with three wishes?” Eddie asks dubiously.

“Not even then. There’s tons of things I would wish for that are way better than changing my very favorite boy.”

“Like what?” Eddie smiles, pressing a small kiss to the side of Richie’s neck.

“Mmm, lemme think. Off the top of my head: world peace, to make this summer last forever, and a 10-inch dong.”

“World peace always backfires, but I can’t argue with the second. And your dick is fine the way it is,” Eddie sighs, put-out.

 _“Is_ it now?” Richie smirks, pulling away so Eddie can see his jumping eyebrows.

“Yes,” Eddie says seriously, grimacing. “If it were any bigger, it probably wouldn't fit.”

“Oh, I’m _so_ telling everyone you said that,” Richie grins mischievously, eyes lighting up from the mental image of the look on Stan’s face.

“No!” Eddie gasps, tackling Richie into the grass. “You can’t use my in-bee-gri-yated state against me!”

“Inebriated, darling,” Richie corrects, laughing as Eddie pins his wrists to the damp earth. He squirms in Richie’s lap in his attempt to stay upright. Richie knows he could easily remove himself from Eddie’s grasp. He doesn’t. Out here, with only Virgo, Cassiopeia, and a light on the second floor of the Hanlon’s house for company, they’re safe. There’s nothing to fear here. “And what’s in it for me? If you don’t give me what I want, this little bird sings like a canary!”

Eddie sighs harshly, squeezing Richie’s wrists. “Whaddya want, little bird?”

Richie’s laughter tapers off until he’s simply smiling up at Eddie. The stars shine brilliantly all around them, and the crescent moon is lighting up Eddie’s silhouette. He looks a little like an angel; more beautiful and holy than Richie could ever deserve. He can’t help but sigh around his lovestruck grin. “Well, a cuddle for starters. We’ll work our way up to a kiss.”

Eddie giggles, nodding as he clumsily lowers himself onto Richie. “I can accept those terms ‘n’ con-di-shins.”

The moment Eddie releases his wrists, Richie reaches down to stabilize Eddie’s hips where they’re swiveling in an attempt to regain stability. “Here, honey, let me…” Richie maneuvers Eddie’s body until he’s got their legs tangled together and Eddie’s head pillowed against his chest. “There. That comfy?”

“Super duper,” Eddie answers, wrapping his arms around Richie’s back beneath his jacket.

“Good,” Richie says, petting Eddie’s curls down until they’re no longer tickling the underside of his jaw. He pauses for a moment, assesses if the question he wants to ask is really worth it. Eventually, he decides that Eddie probably won’t even remember his answer, and that’s what gives him the strength to ask it. “Hey, Eds? Why were you so mean to me tonight?”

“Can’t say,” Eddie mumbles, barely heard through the material of Richie’s dress shirt. “Issa secret.”

“I promise I won’t tell,” Richie responds, a little hushed, a little scared.

“Not even to my boyfriend?”

Richie’s smiles up at the stars. _God, I’m gonna miss hearing that._ “That sad sack? Never.”

Eddie gasps, head shooting up to glare at Richie. “He’s not a sad sack, you take that back! He’s the best boyfriend in the whole wide _world!”_

“I’m sorry, Eddie baby, I take it back,” Richie says, grinning down at Eddie, swiping his curls from out of his eyes and tucking them behind one ear. “Your boyfriend seems like a real cool cat. A stand-up fella for sure.”

“He _is._ He’s my _favorite_ fella,” Eddie grumbles, narrowing his eyes briefly before lowering his head back onto Richie’s chest.

“I promise I won’t tell your best-boyfriend-in-the-whole-wide-world why you were mean to him,” Richie repeats, knowing Eddie’s surely lost his train of thought.

Eddie sighs, curling up close to Richie and hiding in his jacket. “Cuz I lost his present.”

Richie squints at the sky. “What present?”

“The one he gave me for our Valentersery. His beautiful ring, I _lost_ it.” Richie’s heart lurches, not for the lost ring, but for the unadulterated despair in Eddie’s voice. How long has Eddie been feeling so awful? How long has he been hiding this? How had Richie not noticed his misery, or that the ring was missing at all? How does he pay so much less attention to Eddie than he ever realized? “It was my favorite thing in the world, and I _lost_ it. I’m so terrible-’n’-awful. I didn’t mean to, I swear I did, I looked everywhere and everything, but I think it went down the drain when I was washing dishes b’cause one minute it was there, and the next it was _gone,_ and I’ve been so afraid to tell him cuz he’ll hate me when I do, I just _know_ it.”

“Eddie, hey, hey,” Richie says softly, sitting them both up so he can get a better look at Eddie who has started to cry again, but it’s quieter this time, and Richie’s heart aches. Even when Richie cups his cheeks, Eddie’s eyes stay resolutely planted in the grass between them. “Don’t say that. Why do you think he’d hate you? He likes you so much, Eds, you know that.”

“He does _now,”_ Eddie wails, his whole body wracked with the force of it. “But he’ll hate me. He’s too good for me, anyways.”

“That’s not true.” Richie wants more than anything to break the thin membrane of distance referring to himself in the third person is giving them, but he knows it’s keeping them both safe, so instead he says, “Richie adores you, Eddie darling. He doesn’t care if you wear his ring every single day, or if you pitch it into the fucking ocean.”

Eddie gasps indignantly, finally allowing himself to make eye contact, insisting fiercely, “I would _never._ My ring was so special to me, I’d never hurt it on purpose!”

“I know that, Eds,” Richie smiles, tipping his head to one side and watching as Eddie does the same, burrowing into his hand. He smothers the smile with false seriousness. “I mean, _Richie_ knows that. But I promise I won’t tell.”

Eddie nods just as seriously, though Richie has a feeling it isn’t for show. “You better not. I’m trusting you, mister.”

“I’m honored,” Richie grins, pulling Eddie back down and resituating them so Eddie’s head is back on his chest. If Richie listens hard enough, he can still hear the radio pumping tunes from _Chez Vrai._ He can’t tell from this distance what it’s playing, but it makes him feel calmer just to hear.

“What if…” Eddie trails off, barely making a sound. “What if the clown stole it?”

“Then I’ll beat its head in,” Richie answers immediately, voice made of iron at the mere thought, “again.”

Eddie fiddles with the silk of Richie’s tie, thumbing it back and forth in an attempt to calm down. “You _did_ do it pretty good the last time.”

“Fuck yeah I did,” Richie snorts, “and I’d do it a million times over if you wanted it back bad enough.”

“No, don’t,” Eddie gasps, clutching the tie tightly. “You might get hurt. That’d be so much worse than me losing it.”

“Okay, I won’t,” Richie chuckles.

“You swear?”

“I swear, Eds.”

They’re quiet for a long time as Richie watches a colony of bats pass overhead and land on the roof of the Farmhouse. He thinks about going up to join them, but ultimately decides he doesn’t want that at all right now; it’s a startling thought. He thinks it might be time to tell Eddie about the first roof, the first time. With any luck, he won’t even remember it in the morning.

Eddie starts speaking before Richie can gather the courage to, though, and he lets out a relieved sigh when he hears him say, “When I was little, I used to think stars were little holes poked in the blanket of the sky, and the sun was shining through the darkness. I dunno if you remember, but I used to ask lots and lots of questions, and my mom got sick of it real quick. ‘Just cuz,’ she’d say. She said that about a lot of things. She still does. She did tonight, too. I think my dad was the one who told me about the holes in the sky. Once my mom caught wind of it, she got mad and had to make up a story. Said it was heaven shining down, and all the lights in the sky, from the moon to the stars to the sun, were God’s Divine Light.”

“Wow,” Richie says flatly, snorting. “I like yours and Pop’s version way better.”

“Me, too... I wanted to be an astronomer when I was real little, thought if I grew up to be important enough, I would be allowed to poke holes.” Another pause, a long one. “Sometimes, I pretend I still believe that.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What, just decide to believe something even though I know scientifically it’s not true? What’d be the point?”

“Why not? Religious fanatics do it all the time. Clearly Mrs. K did.” Eddie laughs, but it sounds hollow.

“Even if it _was_ something I let myself believe, I’m not important enough to poke holes in the sky, and I can’t just _decide_ to be. I’m not even important enough for the ground we walk on.”

“That’s not true,” Richie urges quietly. Eddie doesn’t respond, doesn’t even move. Richie sighs and hooks his hand up underneath Eddie’s suit jacket and cups his shoulder, tugging him even closer so there isn’t a static between there bodies, nothing to misconstrue. “You know, in medieval times, the Romans thought stars were holes poked in the floor of heaven, too.”

“Wow, really?” Eddie asks, a little breathless. Richie hums in assent. Eddie turns his head from Virgo in the sky to the stars in Richie’s eyes. “How do you know that?”

“I know lots of things, little star.” He kisses the bridge of Eddie’s nose gently and then settles back into the long grass swaying listlessly against the night breeze once he sees Eddie smile, however small and forced it may be. “The Romans didn’t know any better, only knew that they loved Jesus Christ, believed in Him with all their might, and they needed a moral compass, something to ground them in the reality that the pursuit of good was worthy. Maybe your mom needed that, too, so she made up the story about Divine Light for herself as much as she made it up for you. So you’d both have a reason to do good.”

“But she knew better than the Romans did. She does now, too,” Eddie says, like he’s trying to convince himself of it.

Richie hums. “Maybe.” Eddie’s fists ball up tighter in his shirt, surely leaving tons of wrinkles for Mags to kvetch about. “There are good people and bad people who use religion as a moral compass. There are good reasons and bad reasons to use it in that way, too.”

“Nearly every war is started because of religion,” Eddie points out, half a sigh.

“True,” Richie says, “but do you know who never started a war?” Eddie hums, and Richie points to the sky. “Virgo.”

“Really?” Eddie asks. He’s so quiet, Richie wouldn’t have been able to hear him unless they were barely an inch apart.

“Really. She saw how brutal and cruel mankind had become since the opening of Pandora’s Box and decided to live the rest of time in the sky, free from the war and suffering humans began inflicting upon one another. She chose to sit out the everlasting war of humanity, and she’s better off for it; she’s the brightest constellation in the entire night sky. Never dims. She is a light that never goes out.”

“You know so much,” Eddie marvels, like he can’t really believe it, or like he’d forgotten. Maybe both. “Richie?” He asks, a whisper this time, but loud enough to hear without straining. Richie turns to face him, nose-to-nose, soul-to-soul. “Do you think my light will ever go out?”

“No, sweetheart, I don’t think it will,” Richie sighs, the corners of his mouth curling. “You’re much too resilient for that.”

“Resilient,” Eddie repeats, sounding out the word slowly.

“Mmm. Strong, perseverant, etcetera,” Richie supplies. “No matter how much cruelty you withstand, you don’t ever stop fighting to be better than it.”

“Richie, you…” Eddie sighs, and hangs his head. “I don’t really know what I did to deserve you say such nice things about me, ‘specially after I’ve been such a dick to you, tonight, and-and… and every night.”

“You don’t _deserve_ it, per say,” Richie says, “at least not in the way you’re thinking. You don’t deserve for me to be in love with you; I just am. You are you, and I am I, and I fell in love with you. There is no deserving or undeserving in the equation.”

“Love?” Eddie asks, barely a breath, all hope.

Richie smiles slightly, eyes a little wet, and nods because he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Eddie won't remember this when morning comes, “Yeah, Eds. Love.”

“Not like, or adore, or any of those?” Eddie asks, like he’s really having trouble with the concept that Richie is actually in love with him. What a moron.

“Those, too, don’t get me wrong,” Richie says, mock-serious as he tips his forehead against Eddie’s.

“Wow,” Eddie breathes. “That’s crazy.”

“Probably,” Richie agrees.

“Even after all that mean stuff I did tonight?” Eddie frowns.

“I mean, yeah,” Richie sighs. He shrugs. “It’s whatever.”

“No it’s not. I hurt your feelings.”

“I guess,” he mumbles, turning away.

“No,” Eddie insists, grabbing both of his cheeks and pulling at them until Richie’s facing him again, has no choice but to look him in the eye. “You are going to tell me I hurt your feelings.”

“What’s the point? We’re past it,” Richie insists, whining a little.

“Because I need to hear it just as much as you need to say it,” he says, which, point.

“Fine. You hurt my feelings. Are you happy?”

“No. Tell me why.”

“You’re ruthless!” Richie sighs harshly, throwing up his hands. “Fine.” He shrugs Eddie off, sitting upright and hugging his knees to his chest, back to staring at the bats on the rooftop, back to wishing he was up there with them. “You wanna know why you hurt me? Because you made me feel like everyone else does. Like I’m just some stupid, worthless joke machine. Like I don’t even matter to you; or in general. Because I-I… I hate myself all the fucking time, and to think my not-actually-boyfriend hates me, too, is enough to make me wanna jump off a fuckin’ roof — again, ha.”

“A—... Wait, Richie, what are you talking about—?”

“I’m _talking_ about me, 11 years old, jumping off the roof of my parents’ two-story after spending three weeks trying to calculate all the right angles so that could snap my neck and just ended up breaking my arm instead because I freaked out on the way down. I’m talking about me, 12 years old, swallowing a handful of sleeping pills because I just wanted the pain to fucking _stop,_ but it didn’t, and I woke up 16 hours later with nothing to show for it but a migraine and a clown to fight. I’m talking about me, 18 years old, wanting to crash my car, or OD, or climb up on the Hanlon’s roof right now, right this very second, because it’s taller and better than mine was and would definitely kill me this time. I’m talking about dying, Eddie. I’m talking about hating myself enough to let it kill me.”

“Oh, my God,” Eddie whispers. Richie’s cheeks burn. God, he’s so glad Eddie won’t remember this. God, he wishes like hell Eddie would fucking remember this. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God, I need to not be drunk right now. I wish I wasn’t drunk right now.”

“Me, too,” Richie spits out, but it’s not nearly as angry as he wants it to be. He just sounds desperate. He wishes he weren’t so goddamned desperate.

“No, Richie, this is so important. I have to remember this, but the world is spinning. Richie, I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked why you broke your arm and I didn't. I remember you came to school with a cast, and I made some joke, but it’s not a _joke._ Richie, you’re my best friend, and I guess I knew from when you told Bev and I at the Barrens, but I didn’t think — more than once, you tried to — oh, my God.”

“Eddie, it’s fine,” Richie says, wishing they could just stop talking about it, wishing with everything he has that he could take it back. “Please _don’t_ remember. This was a mistake, I shouldn’t’ve even said anything.”

“No, no, no,” Eddie’s moaning, grabbing at Richie’s jacket, his shirt, his hair, his skin, trying to put him back together, trying to put his heart back where it’s supposed to be. He thinks maybe he left his heart splattered on the blacktop at his parents’ house in 1987. He thinks maybe he carved his heart right out of his own chest and left it on Eddie Kaspbrak’s front porch like a goddamned dog. He thinks maybe he never had a heart to be begin with. He thinks maybe he was born to love and never be loved in return. He thinks maybe he deserves that. He thinks maybe he lied to Eddie about what they deserve and what they don’t.

“Richie, I made a mistake. Oh my God, I fucked up. The letter, I—I should’ve never given you up. I had the chance to take care of you and keep you always safe and I gave it up because I’m a fucking _coward!_ Fuck, Richie, I’m so sorry. I want you to be happy so fucking bad, and I thought you’d be happier without me, so I ripped it up. I’m so selfish. I thought I was being unselfish, but I wasn’t. All the pieces are gone now. Maybe I could’ve pieced it back together, but they’re gone, and _you’ll_ be gone, and you’ll take my heart with you, and I won’t be able to save you. I’m so sorry, Richie. I wish I could’ve told you how much I loved you back then. Would that have helped?”

“No,” Richie lies. “Eddie, what are you talking about? What letter?”

“UCLA.” Richie’s heart slams against his ribcage, reminding him that it’s still right there inside his chest. He regrets having even asked, not feeling nearly stable enough to hear this, and he's grateful when Eddie doesn't elaborate. “It doesn’t matter, because I’m a coward, and—fuck. Richie, fuck, I need you to forgive me. I need you to say it’s okay.”

“It’s okay. I forgive you.” His mouth is moving. Puppet.

“No, no, fuck, wait, I didn’t mean it like that. Fuck. Hold on.”

Eddie puts his hands on both of Richie’s shoulders and stands up on his knees so Richie has to look up to see him. Eddie’s eyes are closed and his face is covered in tear tracks and snot. He looks absolutely devastated. Richie feels guilty for harsh, blinding a moment, but then everything goes numb again, like it did when his parents drove him to the hospital with a broken arm, berating him for joking around on the roof. He never told them it wasn’t a joke. He probably never will.

“Richie,” Eddie breathes, reverent, eyes still closed to keep what little composure he has left, still hovering over Richie like he’s floating, “you’re my very best friend. I would be lost without you. We all would.”

“Thanks for the empty gestures, Eds, but it’s about five years too late,” Richie snorts. He wants to shrug Eddie off; he almost does, but knows Eddie would topple over, and if he fell into the pile of vomit he miraculously still hasn’t noticed, Richie would have to take care of him while they're both panicking, and he just doesn’t have the strength for that. The mostly-unwanted physical contact is the lesser of two evils right now. “I haven’t done anything real about it since clown-summer.”

“You… It was that summer? Really?” Eddie’s brows screw inward. His eyes stay closed. “You never told me you were feeling so badly. I guess we all were, but... I’m sorry I never noticed.”

“What could you have done?” Richie shrugs.

“Make you grilled cheeses,” Eddie suggests.

“Pretty sure you did that.”

“Or brush your hair, and braid it into pigtails to make you smile. It was definitely long enough by the time we were back in school.” Richie’s lips quirk upwards for a brief moment, grateful Eddie can’t see it. He thinks he might’ve liked that. “I could’ve taken you to see Ghostbusters with me instead of insisting I go alone because you’re always gasping loudly ‘n’ kickin’ yer feet ‘n’ punching me in the arm whenever there’s a good line, and makin’ everyone turn around t’glare at us.”

“Yeah, but it was probably for the best because you hate that I do that,” Richie says, voice thick with emotional exhaustion.

“No, baby, I really don’t.” Eddie tips forward, letting his forehead bump into Richie’s gently a few times before resting them together. Richie can’t say he minds Eddie’s touch so much anymore. In fact, it feels a bit like a weighted blanket, the way he always does right before he falls asleep; safe, at least until dreams come.

“Eddie?”

“Yes, little star?”

“Oh,” Richie breathes, forgetting entirely that he was going to ask Eddie about the letter. He doesn’t care anymore; he doesn’t want to know. He just wants to have this—Eddie keeping him safe from the world and from himself—until the lights shut off.

“Yeah? You dig that?” Eddie smirks. His eyes are still closed, the little luminescent lunatic, and Richie can’t believe he’s blushing in front of the guy whose ass he’s had his dick in as he tries to stutter through an embarrassed response.

“‘Course I dig it,” Richie mumbles, scoffing, but way too soft to not be incriminating. He taps Eddie’s temple lightly with the heel of his palm in a vain attempt to infuse humor into the tense situation. “You kiddin’ me? I-I dig _you,_ stupid.”

Richie knows that Eddie can’t come with him when he leave in August, but shit, can’t a kid dream? Him and all his closest friends, fucking up the glittering isles of Hollywood. Helping Bev propose to Samantha and probably setting his all clothes on fire in the process because he has a bad track record with candlelit romantic gestures (Sam’ll still say yes, because he thinks the way she looked at Bev while they were dancing earlier is probably pretty similar to the way he looks at Eddie always, even when he hurts him); taking care of Ben when he gets sick because he can _never_ manage to resist flinging himself headfirst into the ocean; nursing Stan’s bruises with the travel First Aid Kit Eddie forces Richie to keep in his car when Stan inevitably can’t manage to keep his mouth shut in front of homophobic assholes; visiting Mike at work and annoying the shit out of him by being too loud for a public library; Bill holding his hair back when he pukes his guts up after inevitably forgetting how sushi disagrees with him; finding peace in the silence of him and Eddie alone on the couch on their days off, unafraid to be caught tangled up in one another in the apartment they share with all their friends.

3,000 miles from the demon clown from space who tried to ruin them and only succeeded in bringing them together, they would finally be able to start healing. Peace; how fucking beautiful would that be? Maybe it's a pipe dream. Maybe it's unrealistic that he keeps every friend he made in middle school when they all go their separate ways. But at least for tonight, it’s a pretty nice dream to pretend is reality.

“C’mon, Eds, let’s go show off your pretty suit,” Richie says, finally hugging Eddie around the waist and sighing against his mouth. They won’t kiss, because Richie smoked half a pack of cigarettes tonight, plus Eddie definitely threw up and is way too drunk for Richie to feel comfortable doing anything, no matter how long they’ve been dating. He doesn’t think they need to. This is still good. This intimacy, this darkness, this silver silence is so, so good.

“I wanna stay here with you forever,” Eddie whispers, kissing the corner of Richie’s mouth. Richie sighs, begrudgingly turns his head.

“Smoked before I came out here,” he says.

“I know. I can always tell.” Eddie lets his forehead rest against Richie’s cheek. “Sometimes when I’m missing you real bad, I’ll light a cigarette and let it burn out the window ‘til it’s gone. I’ve got a pack of Winstons in a box in my closet; had Bev nick ‘em for me.”

“Really?” Richie responds quietly, unable to look at Eddie, feeling pulled taut like a bowstring. “Why?”

“Cuz no matter how many times in a row I make you brush your teeth, your mouth still always tastes like them a li’l bit. If I weren’t so scared my ma would catch me, I’d smoke ‘em, too, just so I could always taste you, even when you're not around for me t’taste.”

Richie can’t respond, gobsmacked by everything from the fact that Eddie didn’t cite his father’s death for the reason he doesn’t smoke to the reason he real wants to. Richie thinks the urge to lick into Eddie’s mouth and lose himself in the tangles of his insides might become an endless feedback loop in his head after hearing that. He wants to root himself to Eddie from edge to shining edge, back pressed against the long grass with his face to the jackal-smile moon. He wishes he could lay back and let Eddie take and take and take from him, just as he always does. He manages to resist, but looking back, he won’t know how.

“I want to dance with you in front of all our friends,” Richie whispers. “Wish I could show the whole world how much I fucking worship you.”

“Richie,” Eddie whimpers, clinging close enough so that there’s no space between them at all. Eddie’s fingernails are pricking into the back of Richie’s neck, and Richie wants to drown in this feeling. He doesn’t feel so much like scorning invincibility anymore.

“I want you to remember my love for you, even if everything else from tonight fades.”

“I will, will, I will,” Eddie promises impossibly, words all slurring together as he nods desperately. “Promise I will.”

He feels a little like he's taking advantage of Eddie, knowing that he’s only responding the way he is because he's sad and drunk and hurting. He doesn’t take it back—doesn’t even want to—but the guilt threatens to swallow him whole regardless. He blows out an unsteady breath, shaking his head harshly. His neck pops and Eddie winces; he's hated that Richie cracks his joints since he was 11 years old. Richie’s loved him just as long. “C’mon handsome, before I let you pin me to the ground and have your wicked way with me.”

“Ooh, _I_ could pin _you?”_ Eddie grins, brows raised in excitement as he pulls away.

“It certainly is one of our options,” Richie smiles, grabbing the bottle of bourbon and slowly helping Eddie up, careful not to jostle him into nausea. It only barely works, and Eddie sways in place, then stumbles off to the side, laughing so hard he begins snorting indelicately.

“I'm _drunk,”_ he says, as if it's news.

“You _really_ are,” Richie agrees, laughing, too. He takes one final look up at the Farmhouse roof. He smiles. The bats fly away, startled from the sound of laughter in love. He thinks maybe come September, he'll fly away, too, and won't ever have to climb another roof again. “Still feel like lettin’ me take you to the dance floor to cut a rug?”

“I’d go anywhere with you!” Eddie giggles. Richie wishes that were true. Eddie lets Richie wrap an arm around his waist for stability, and throws an arm over his shoulders for good measure. Richie has to duck a bit to make it work, but he'd forgotten how good it feels to touch Eddie like the friends he'd almost forgotten they still are; will always be no matter what. Walking them over to the barn, he smiles down at the boy he loves and kisses his cheek.

Eddie looks up at him, stumbling in the attempt, a huge, helpless grin on his face. “Wha’wuzzat for?”

Richie shrugs, pointing forward with the hand holding the liquor so Eddie will follow the light coming from _Chez Vrai_ instead of the silver softness. “Nothin’. Just love you s’all.”

Caught off guard, Eddie gurgles loudly, which is super unattractive, but objectively hilarious, so Richie laughs at him. “Stop it!” Eddie shrieks indignantly. “You can't make funna me when you _love_ me!”

“Sure I can,” Richie replies. “In fact, I think I'd love you all wrong if I _didn't_ make funna you.”

Eddie harrumphs, trying to extricate himself from Richie's hold, but only manages pitches himself into the grass. Richie laughs again, but joins him on the ground a few hundred feet away from _Chez Vrai._ After about 20 seconds of laughing hysterically, Richie calms down long enough to notice Eddie hasn't moved at all.

“Okay drama queen, if you wanna lay out here forever, be my guest, but I think I'm still owed a dance.”

“No, Richie, I…” Eddie’s voice is muffled by the dewy grass, but Richie thinks he hears him say, _feel like I’m dying._

“Huh? What was that? Here.” Richie tugs at Eddie’s arms, flipping him over so his head is pillowed in Richie’s lap and he’s grazing up at him, eyes filling with tears. Richie frowns, scratching his scalp. “What’s up, sugar?”

“Richie, I don’t wanna be here anymore. I wanna say bye-bye-Benny, but I feel… bad.”

Richie reaches down to touch his cheek, feeling it warm and damp beneath his palm. Eddie immediately leans his head in Richie’s hand, sighing gratefully. “What kind of bad?”

“Scared-bad. My inhaler’s inside with my backpack, and I’m cold and wet and my mouth tastes like garbage and I just—” He sniffs harshly, swiping the side of one hand across his cheeks. “I’m so scared. I feel like I fucked us up. I hurt you and took advantage of you being a good guy like I _always_ do, and now we gotta break up.” It’s only then that Richie notices Eddie’s jaw clenched and can feel him grinding his teeth. He immediately presses his fingertips into the tight muscles, and the spin loose just as quickly.

“Oh, baby, _no._ We’re fine, I swear. We don't gotta do anything we don't wanna do. It was just a fight. Couples fight.”

“Maybe,” Eddie sniffs, looking away, “but not as much as we do.” Richie stays silent. He stops pressing his fingers into Eddie’s jaw, pulling his hands from his face entirely. “Plus, we’re… we’re not…”

“Yeah,” Richie says, flat and hollow, eyes vacant as he stares down at Eddie still crying in his lap, “I know.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie whispers. “I'm so fuckin’ sorry. I wish…” He trails off, ashamed, unable to finish his sentence. He looks wracked with guilt and anxiety, but for perhaps the first time in his entire life, Richie doesn’t have the urge to fix it.

“It’s fine. Let’s just go home.”

Eddie’s eyes widen, his head shooting out of Richie’s hand as he sits up straight. “Which home?”

“My home.”

Eddie crumbles dramatically in relief, his whole body sagging against Richie now instead of just his head. “M’kay.” Richie doesn’t push him away, but he doesn’t pull him any closer either. Maybe, he thinks, he should stop doing so until Eddie finally admits that’s what he wants in the first place. Richie is so tired of giving without ever knowing what he’ll get in return.

“Do you still feel up to saying bye to Ben?”

Eddie’s face screws up in distaste. “He’s gon’ make funna me.”

“Ben!?” Richie demands, laughing incredulously, pushing Eddie away with both hands on his shoulders to get a good look at him. He shakes him playfully, like a friend would. Friends. Just friends. Just friends who are madly in love. Just friends who have shared trauma and shared firsts and shared bodies and hearts and souls. Friends, friends, friendly friends. “Our Ben? Benjamin Hansom? The Smiling Bookshelf? Have you killed every brain cell in that pretty little head of yours with all that alcohol?”

“No!” Eddie laughs, hiccoughing halfway through. Richie curls his arms around him to stabilize him. It takes a solid minute of Eddie swaying as he grips the lapel of Richie’s suit jacket before he breathes out slowly, the wave of nausea clearly passed. He looks back up at Richie, eyes clouded. “What were we talkin’ n’about?”

“Bye-bye-Benny.”

“Right. He’ll make _funna_ me ‘cause I’ll _cry.”_

“Aw, Eds, c’mon, he will not.” Richie’s choking back laughter as he ruffles Eddie’s hair. “He’ll prolly cry, too, knowing him. If I can promise he won’t laugh at you, will you say goodbye to him? This is, y’know… the last time. All of us will, you know...” Richie trails off, shrugging. The last of seven; the last of how it should be. Eddie’s face crumbles, and he leans forward to hide himself in the crook of Richie’s shoulder. Richie can feel Eddie’s wet cheek pressing against his neck. He sighs and cards his fingers through Eddie’s hair because he knows it will calm Eddie down faster.

It takes so long for Eddie to respond that Richie has to pull him back to look at him. He finds Eddie intensely tapping his chin. Richie laughs quietly at Eddie’s dramatics, and leans forward to kiss the tip of his nose. He thinks after the night he’s had, he deserves to allow himself to take a bit of what he always wants: unfettered affection. “H’okay, Hosea,” Eddie says.

“H’okay,” Richie laughs, hauling Eddie up from where they’re curled up together on the grass. They wrap their arms around each other’s waists, Eddie’s head tipped onto Richie’s shoulder, and make their way back to _Chez Vrai._ Inside, they’re met with a mostly-familiar sight: the entire group (along with Samantha) engaged in what looks to be a very intense round of Bullshit, complete with Stan barely keeping his eyes open and Bev looking smug as shit.

While Richie stares at the group, a bit misty-eyed, Eddie crosses the room to grab his backpack from where he abandoned it on the table. He gargles with mouthwash several times, and looks around guiltily before attempting to sneakily take a hit off his inhaler. Bill looks up at the sound of the aspirator being triggered, frowning intensely.

“Eds? You good?” He calls, causing everyone to pause their game. Richie winces at Bill’s tactlessness.

“Oh! Yeah, I’m fine!” Eddie laughs, strained and still anxious. Instead of returning his inhaler to his backpack, he shoves it in his pocket. “Richie and I were just gonna come see what you were doing. Can we get in on the next hand?”

“Ugh, can we just do a new round?” Mike groans, throwing down the huge stack he’s juggling in his hands. “Bev’s gonna win anyway.”

“Chump,” Bev smirks, grabbing Mike’s card from the coffee table and deftly shuffling as she looks up to find Richie still hovering in the doorway. “C’mon in, Ditch, the water’s fine.”

“Uh.” Richie clears his throat, nodding awkwardly and shooting a confused look to Eddie. He’s more than fine with staying, but he has no interest if Eddie’s going to be weird the whole time. But Eddie isn’t looking at him; he’s busy pouring himself another drink. Richie rolls his eyes surreptitiously, and makes his way to where Ben is sat between Bev and Mike, moving to hook up legs over Ben’s shoulders. “So long as this handsome fella gets to be my partner!”

“There’s no partners, Richie, it’s Bullshit,” Ben smiles, reaching up to hold tightly to the tops of his thighs so as not to let him topple over.

“Oh, damn.” Richie swings himself around, sitting on Ben’s lap and looking behind to him coyly. “Guess you’ll just have to be my partner in _other_ ways then.” He winks.

“Wh-What other ways?” Ben asks, eyes wide.

“Why, dancin’ ways, of course!” Richie grins, settling back when Ben visibly relaxes and leans his weight back on his palms to support the two of them.

“I think Stan or Bev might be a better dance partner than I am,” Ben blushes, ducking his head.

“Don’t sell yourself so short, babe!” Richie grins, pinching Ben’s chin between two fingers and shaking it fondly. “You’re the best we got, and everyone knows it.”

“He’s right,” Sam says from Bev’s other side. “Ben’s definitely the best out of all of you.”

“Hey!” Everyone cries as Eddie sulks over to sit between Stan and Bill, nursing a drink that Richie can smell the alcoholic stench of wafting from across the table. Whatever. Richie isn’t his babysitter, and if he wants to ruin his own night, he has every right to. He’s a grown-ass man, no matter what Sonia tries to shove down his throat. Richie is going to enjoy the last night he might ever have with the Losers’ Club.

And enjoy it he does. Two hours later, he’s shared a one-hitter with Bev, Bill, and Ben, played copious amounts of card games, and gotten to know Bev’s Samantha well enough to find out that she’s planning on studying at NYU to become a licensed clinical social worker. Richie tells her that’s a valiant profession before telling her to psychoanalyze him. All she says in response is, _I really don’t think you want that,_ which is probably true, but he pushes her anyway. She stares at him shrewdly for a full minute as he chuckles and shifts uncomfortably before declaring, _you’d rather people hate you than know you in any degree. You don’t care if they’re laughing with you or laughing at you so long as their eyes are closed._

Richie swiftly changes the subject after that.

After the brief pseudo-psychoanalyzation session, Richie dragged Mike out to the house (bypassing the vomit they both know is there) and quietly climb up onto the roof. They pass a few cigs between them and chat about everything from the encroaching departures of everyone they love (aside from Mike himself who feels it’s his ‘duty’ to stay in Derry, which makes Richie’s heart hurt to hear) to arguing about their favorite bands. Everything except Eddie, of course; whenever the conversation starts to veer there, Richie deftly steers it away. Because Eddie has been drinking himself into a lonely stupor the rest of the night, and while Richie knows he’ll take him back to his house later and take care of him while he’s sick and hungover, he doesn’t have to _yet._

Eventually though, Mike gets him to break his vow of silence about it by appealing to his sense of humor and easily-stroked ego.

“You really kicked Eddie’s ass during Bullshit.”

“We all did; he’s drunk as a skunk.”

“Yeah, but you were ruthless about it. Even Sam noticed.”

“She did?” Richie asks, whipping his head to face Mike with wide eyes. _You’d rather people hate you than know you to any degree._ He chokes on the smoke from the cigarette he was trying to take a drag from. Mike takes it from him and stubs it out on the shingles.

“Yeah; she said she was impressed.”

“She _did?”_ Richie grins.

Mike answers, “No,” a deadpan expression on his face that Richie can’t help but laugh at.

“Bastard.”

“So what was with that? You kicking Eddie’s ass? Usually you let him win in games like that.”

“I do not,” Richie frowns, glaring, but Mike just levels him with a disbelieving look that makes Richie immediately deflate. “We got into a fight.”

“Yeah? ‘Bout what?”

“Stuff.”

“What kinda stuff?”

“And _I’m_ ruthless,” Richie laughs quietly, shaking his head. He sighs, dragging his hands over his face roughly. He looks out to _Chez Vrai,_ easily seeing inside from there only being half of a roof. The radio's been turned off, and Bill and Stan have already turned in for the night, sharing the couch (and a blanket, which doesn’t look to be going too well). Eddie is trying to play some card game with Bev, Ben, and Sam. He looks miserable, only half-paying attention. Richie lays back on the pitched roof and watches the stars instead; they’re much safer territory than feeling guilty over things he can’t control. Mike joins him, and Richie is grateful they don’t have to look at each other while speaking about something so intimate as his relationship issues.

“Did you know Eddie won’t even call me his boyfriend to _me?”_

“I didn’t,” says Mike, sounding genuinely shocked.

“Yeah. We’ve been dating for a year-and-a-fucking-half, and he’s still gun shy about the word _boyfriend.”_

“Well, Rich, not everyone is as comfortable being as openly counter-culture as you. Not everyone can be.” Richie swallows roughly and says nothing. “You know he loves you.”

Richie laughs mirthlessly. “Yeah, I really don’t.”

“What, he won’t say that either?”

“Ding ding ding.”

“That’s actually less surprising,” Mike chuckles, quiet as ever, but a touch more gentle than usual. “He can barely tell _Beverly_ he loves her, and he certainly loves her in a much different way than he loves you. From where I’m standing—”

“Sitting, technically.”

“Don’t interrupt me, Trashmouth,” Mike warns. “This is important, so listen up.” Richie mimes zipping his lips closed and pitching the key off the roof. Mike laughs quietly and shakes his head. “From where I’m sitting, I see two kids who love each other so much, they’d rather cut themselves on each other’s broken pieces than ever give each other up.”

Richie sucks in a ragged breath. Vertigo kicks in from rapid oxygen intake, and the stars start spinning. The air is frigid three stories up, and he wants to huddle closer to Mike, for warmth or for comfort, he isn’t sure. He doesn’t; he just pulls on his jacket, trying to find comfort in himself. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to stop hurting each other? Or hurting ourselves?”

Mike hums thoughtfully. “Maybe. I think so. But you both gotta figure out why you want to first.”

Richie sniffs harshly, from tears and from the cold, and Mike immediately pulls a handkerchief seemingly out of nowhere. Richie laughs, and says, “Thanks, handsome.” He uses it, blowing as loudly as he can to make Mike laugh. He folds it back up and hands it over. “I mean, I don’t _want_ to ever hurt him. I never do. But it seems like, sometimes, he wants to hurt me.”

“He doesn’t,” Mike says, “that much I know.”

“Yeah? How can you be so sure?”

“Because he’s Eddie, Rich. He still carries around his inhaler so his ma won’t get worried. He sits with Stan whenever he pulls away from the group so he doesn’t have to be alone in his silence. There’s always fresh flowers on Georgie’s grave, and I’ve seen him and Bill there before tons of times when I go to the cemetery with my pops to visit Gramma. He walks Bev home from school every single day, just in case any assholes try to mess with her. He brings my gramps sweets from his mom’s cupboard whenever he comes over because he knows Gramps loves ‘em. He yells at you for picking fights with whatever brutes you can find, but still patches your wounds with adoration that could be seen from space. Eddie loves, and loves, and loves, and if he’s chosen to stick by your side for over a year despite all the shit he gives himself for being with a guy, then that means something big in my eyes. He loves you, Rich, because he loves all of us, and because… well, why _wouldn’t_ he love you?”

With tears streaming steadily down his cheeks, Richie finally gives in and curls up close to Mike. He feels safe and secure when Mike curls a strong arm round his shoulders and tugs him in so his head is pillowed on his chest. He takes in a shaky breath, and lets it out slow. Mike allows him to sit in the silence. Richie allows himself to sit in the silence; it doesn’t feel nearly as insidious as silence usually does.

Despite the silence, and the awful gnawing feeling in his chest whenever he’s sat on a roof, he still feels at peace.

Eventually, Richie says, “Thanks, Mikey. You’re a real Georgia peach. When Eds and I get married, I call you for my best man.”

Mike laughs, honest and true, despite the low volume. “I think Bev might cage fight me if she heard you say that.”

“Wow,” Richie swoons, sighing dreamily and tucking his clasped hands beneath his chin. “Two big, strong, sexy men fighting for my affections. I’m so lucky.”

Mike digs his fingers into Richie’s hip and he lets out a loud squawk in protest. “You sure are.” Mike sits up, grabbing the cigarette butts and throwing them in the empty cup they brought up. He shakes out his arms, stretches, and turns back to Richie to catch his smile. “C’mon. It’s getting late.”

Richie blows out a shaky breath, but he smiles all the same. “Yeah. It is.”

When he and Mike get back to _Chez Vrai,_ Bev and Sam are piled in the La-Z-Boy, fast asleep, and Eddie and Ben are slumped against the wall. Eddie’s leaning his head on Ben’s shoulder, and looks half-asleep, but trying to keep himself awake, eyelids fluttering. Ben’s arm is curled protectively around his shoulders, eyes closed, and as Richie gets closer, he sees tear-tracks on both their cheeks. He frowns and bends down onto his toes, thumbing at Eddie’s wet cheek.

His eyes shoot open, and he looks alarmed at the touch, but immediately relaxes when he sees who's hand it is. “Hey,” he says hoarsely. Richie smiles, brows pinched together in concern.

“Hey, peach,” Richie says quietly. “You say bye to Ben?”

“Yeah.” He picks up his knees and tucks them into Ben’s side, seemingly unwilling to leave him. Richie knows the feeling.

“C’mon, scootch.” He squishes himself between Eddie and Ben, jostling the latter awake. He wraps his arms around their shoulders, tipping his head against Ben’s. Eddie just tucks his knees into Richie’s side instead, curling in as close as he was to Ben. “You awake, Ben-jurr-men?” Ben just shrugs. “You guys gotta get comfier if you’re gonna go to sleep.”

“I thought we were going back to yours, Rich,” Eddie says quietly.

“We are if you still want to, Eds, no worries.”

“I can’t drive.”

“It’s cool, I’m sober.” He turns his head and presses a long, loud, smacking kiss to Ben’s cheek until Ben’s giggling like mad. Ben curls his knees up and hides his face in them, embarrassed. “Aw, what a sweetheart you are, Benji!” Ben mumbles nonsensically in reply, leaning his full weight into Richie’s side. He grins when he sees Mike walking over to the table to grab his camera and cheeses up to the viewfinder. His smile falls just as quickly as it came when the weight of _the last time_ hits him like a freight train. “Hey buddy, me and Eds gotta hit the road, but I didn’t wanna leave without sayin’ toodle-loo.”

“Oh. Okay.” He nods and pulls away, turning back to Richie briefly to flash an unconvincing smile. “See you, Rich.”

“Yeah. See you.” Richie wants to tell Ben that he loves him, that he hopes he never loses the strength of his vulnerability, that he hopes he never stops writing and creating for as long as he lives. He doesn’t. All he says is, “Call home once in a while, yeah? At least to let us know you made it to Chicago alright.”

“Sure.” He sounds just as dishonest as the smile had looked, and Richie feels his heart hollow out.

“Okay. C’mon, Eds.” He pulls Eddie up, and holds out a hand to Ben. “You need a ride home?”

“Nah. I'll just walk.”

“You sure, Ben?” Mike frowns. “You’re more than welcome to stay with the rest of us. It’s nearly a mile.”

“It’s alright. I think I just need…” He trails off into nothing. He looks lost, like he has no real idea what he needs.

“C’mon, Ben,” Mike says softly, curling an arm around his shoulders. “We’ve got a comfy bed in the guest room with your name written all over it.”

Ben nods, eyes staring into the distance, vacant. “Okay.” He turns back to Eddie and Richie, waving slightly. “Bye, guys.”

“Bye-bye, Benny,” Eddie says, barely a whisper, voice warbling and eyes shining. He smiles, trying his hardest to be brave.

“See ya on the flipside, Hanscom,” Richie says, winking at him and turning away before anyone can see he’s just as close to tears as Eddie is. He steers him and Eddie to his mom’s car and drives them both home in silence. At one point, Eddie reaches over to put a hand on his thigh. Richie glances over and sees Eddie smiles at him, the false bravery still present. Richie reaches down, links their fingers together, and turns back to the road ahead of them.

They don’t say a word until they’re locked safely behind Richie’s bedroom door, out of their suits and dressed in sleep shirts and boxers, teeth brushed, and the lights off. Richie’s curled around Eddie, holding on as tight as he can, and Eddie turns in his hold and whispers, “Richie?” He hums, letting Eddie squirm around and eventually settle. “You know I love you, right?”

Richie’s surprised laughter gets punched out of him like a physical blow. He presses his forehead against Eddie’s and closes his eyes. “I do now, Eds.”

Clumsily, shakily, Eddie gets up to straddle Richie, warn, “Don’t call me that,” and kiss him silly. It’s not a particularly skilled kiss, because Eddie is still drunk, and Richie is trying very hard not to cry as he clutches tightly onto Eddie’s hips, but it still makes Richie’s head spin all the same. Eddie breaks the kiss only to press his mouth to Richie’s throat, hands wandering under Richie’s shirt, fingers dancing over his heaving ribs. Richie shakes his head, closing his eyes and cupping Eddie’s cheeks with shaking hands. He keeps a solid enough hold on Eddie so that he can’t duck down and kiss him again.

“Eds,” he says, barely breathing and also hyperventilating, “only kissin’.”

“Aw, no fair!” He whines, and Richie laughs, opening his eyes to gaze up at him.

“Sorry Eds, no intoxicated sex. You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

Eddie grins, sharp enough to cut himself on. “But what if I told you I want you anyway?”

“I’d still turn you down. Sorry, toots.”

“You’re no fun,” Eddie sighs, collapsing heavily on top of Richie in defeat and sprawling over him like a starfish. Richie laughs, letting his fingers press into the piano keys of Eddie’s spine.

 _“Au contraire, mon râleur,_ I think I’m very fun,” Richie smiles, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s cheek, wrapping his arms around Eddie’s waist and turning them so they’re laying on their sides.

“What’sat mean?”

“I can’t tell you,” Richie laughs. “You’ll yell at me.”

“I’m always yelling at you.”

“True. It means, like, my grump.”

“Rude!” Eddie gasps. “You can’t use the fact that I took Spanish against me!”

“I can and I will.”

“You’re the worst,” Eddie pouts, finally allowing his eyelids to droop. Richie runs his fingers through Eddie’s hair, smiling as he burrows further into the pillows and sighs dramatically.

“Hey,” Richie says, knowing none of this will be remembered by the both of them in the morning, “you know I love you, too, right?”

Eddie smiles and turns in Richie’s arms once again. There’s a pause long enough where Richie thinks Eddie might’ve fallen asleep. His own breathing slows and he lets himself finally relax. But then Eddie untangles one of Richie’s hands from where it’s clutching onto his borrowed shirt and laces their fingers together. He doesn’t say anything, but Richie doesn’t need him to. Maybe he needs to learn to start paying attention to what Eddie does instead of focusing on what he can’t say.

**Author's Note:**

> here's [other places to find me](http://rebecca.carrd.co).


End file.
